Synopsis: Your sister is convinced Seungmin deserves better than you—and that she should be the one to have him. But after spying on you, breaking into your flat and trying to expose your “affair” with Minho, she learns that Seungmin already knows everything—and still chooses you.
Cw: suggestive content
a/n: i deadass wrote this out like 5 times untill i was happy with it lmaoao, I’m actually wanting to do atleast another part so i’ll focus on some of the other boys as well, i just didn’t want it to feel to crowded and forcedd. Alsooo im so sorryy that it feels so smushed together tumblr block limit is the bane of my existence. AnywayyI hope you all enjoy <33
Wc: 18.5k
Part 1
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The cabinet had looked considerably less complicated in the woman’s hallway. She’d stood beside it with one hand resting on the top, talking about how her husband used to take it apart whenever they moved and put it back together in twenty minutes. Half an hour, maybe, if you hadn’t done it before. She’d said this while Changbin carried one of the glass doors out to the car and Jisung crouched beside a sandwich bag full of screws, nodding as though he’d already understood the entire construction from looking at it once. By the time she drove away, you were still feeling quite pleased with yourself. It was exactly the size you’d wanted. Dark wood, ribbed glass, brass handles. Your records had spent months in boxes against the wall, and the cabinet was supposed to be the thing that made that part of the flat finally look finished instead of somewhere you’d only recently moved into. An hour later, it was spread across the rug in twelve pieces and Jisung had stopped saying the woman’s husband was probably just good at DIY. “Don’t lift it yet, I haven’t—Changbin, wait, my hand’s still there.” “I’m not lifting it. I’m moving my knee because I’ve been sitting like this for twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, but the whole thing’s on your knee, so when you move—just, hang on.” Jisung lowered his face until his cheek was almost against the wood, trying to see beneath the rail he’d been holding in place. His hair fell into his eyes again. He blew at it, missed, and carried on feeling for the screw hole with one finger. “Move it back a little. No, your other way. That’s my way.” Changbin stared down at him. “You said back.” “I know, but from where I am—okay, don’t move. Just stay exactly like that for a second.”
Felix was kneeling beside the coffee table with the screws separated into careful rows, although the only instructions the seller had given you were six photographs printed from her phone. Four were too dark to see the fittings. One appeared to be upside down. The final picture showed the completed cabinet beside a vase of dried flowers and wasn’t helping anyone. You were holding a shelf across your lap because Jisung had handed it to you ten minutes earlier and hadn’t yet asked for it back. “Are you sure that’s the bottom?” you asked. Jisung didn’t look up. “Pretty sure.” “You were pretty sure the other one was the bottom.” “No, I said it could’ve been. That’s different.”
Felix glanced over at the panel beneath Changbin. “The other one has the holes for the feet.” Jisung’s hand stopped beneath the rail. Changbin looked down. “This one doesn’t?” Nobody answered immediately. Jisung slowly pulled his arm out, picked up one of the printed photographs and turned it towards the lamp. “No, because—wait. Is that a foot there, or is it just a mark on the rug?” You leaned towards him. “That’s absolutely a foot.” “Right. Okay.” He looked at what they’d already attached, then rubbed the back of his wrist across his forehead. “It’s fine. We can turn it over later.”
“You’ve screwed both sides into it.” “I know.” “You said it’d be obvious before we got this far.”
“It is obvious now.” You laughed despite yourself. Jisung looked up at the sound, his mouth twitching before he glanced back at the frame. One sleeve of his sweatshirt had fallen over his wrist. You reached across and pushed it up, folding it once above his elbow so it wouldn’t slip again. He went still while you fixed it, then caught your fingertips briefly when you passed the screwdriver back. “Thanks,” he murmured, already looking down again. Seungmin arrived carrying wine, a bag of cans and absolutely none of the practical things you’d asked him to bring. He let himself in, kicked off his shoes and stopped in the doorway. There was a long enough silence that you turned towards him. Seungmin looked at the cabinet pieces, then at you. “I thought you said it was assembled.”
“It was.” “So what happened?” “The woman took it apart.”
His eyes moved to Jisung, who was now removing a screw he’d only just put in. “Why?” Felix glanced up from the screws before answering. “So it would fit in the car,” Felix said. Seungmin stepped farther into the room. “Her car?” You answered before he could ask anything else. “She delivered it,” you told him. He looked at you properly then, waiting. You started laughing before he even said anything. “I know. We didn’t think about that.”
“No, because why would she take it apart before putting it into her own car if she already knew it fitted?” He set the wine on the coffee table, forcing Felix to drag two rows of screws out of the way. “Did she just not want it in one piece anymore?” “She said her husband always dismantled it when they moved.” “Maybe she hated him.”
Jisung lowered the screwdriver. “Can you help instead of making the situation feel worse?” “I’ve just got here. I’m still finding out what the situation is.” “The situation is that I need one of the middle-sized screws. Felix knows which one.”
Felix pointed to a row. Seungmin picked one up, examined it as though there might be a trick involved, then passed it over. For perhaps eight minutes, he genuinely tried. He held one end of the rail while Jisung fitted the bracket, found the small packet containing the feet and noticed that the glass doors had different hinges. Then he opened the wine, poured himself a glass and started reading the seller’s profile aloud instead. “She’s listed a dining table as ‘lightly used’, but there’s a burn through the middle of it.” You craned your neck to see his phone. “Maybe that’s why she photographed it with a tablecloth.” “She’s put ‘easy restoration project’.”
Felix was still sorting screws. “That usually means broken.” “The cabinet said ‘excellent condition’.” Everyone looked at the cabinet. One side was scratched. The base was upside down. Changbin still couldn’t take his hands off it. You took the glass Seungmin offered you. “Don’t show me anything else she’s selling. I don’t want to know.”
Minho came in from the kitchen when he heard the cork go back into the bottle. He had the tea towel over one shoulder and a small streak of flour or salt across the front of his shirt. “You started drinking?” “You were cooking,” Seungmin said, already reaching for another glass. “I’m still cooking.”
“That doesn’t stop you drinking.” Minho accepted the wine and came over to inspect the cabinet. He circled it once, crouched beside Jisung and pressed his fingers against the bracket. “This is backwards.” Jisung looked at him. “It isn’t.”
“It is.” “The photograph’s taken from this side.” Minho picked up the page and held it beside the panel. “No, it isn’t. Look at the door.” Jisung leaned closer. Felix shifted over to see. Changbin, still trapped behind the frame, tried to look upside down. “Oh,” Jisung said eventually.
Minho held his hand out for the screwdriver. Jisung gave it to him with less resistance than he’d given anyone else all evening. Minho removed the bracket, turned it and refitted it while drinking between screws. When he finished, he handed the tool back and sat on the floor beside your legs. “Both of them are backwards,” he added. Jisung stared at the matching bracket on the other side. “Could you have said that before you sat down?” “I thought you’d work it out.”
“I have been working it out for an hour.” “Mm.” You rested your fingers in Minho’s hair, lightly scratching near his scalp. He leaned into your knee without taking his eyes off the cabinet. A timer sounded from the kitchen. Minho didn’t move. It sounded again. You nudged his shoulder. “Is that important?”
“Probably.” He took another mouthful of wine, then caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it before getting up. “Don’t let them attach anything else, honey.” Jisung looked up as Minho started away. “We’re not waiting for you,” Jisung called after him. “You should.”
The cabinet was back on its side by the time Minho returned to the kitchen. You kept trying to help for a while. You held the rail, found a washer beneath the sofa and checked the listing photograph for any sign that the central shelf was supposed to tilt slightly. You were nearly certain it wasn’t, although by then you’d lost enough confidence that you didn’t insist. Seungmin had moved to the boxes of records. At first, he was only clearing them out of the way. Then he opened one and started going through it, sitting cross-legged with his drink balanced between his ankles. You noticed when he went back through the same stack a second time. “What are you looking for?” He held up one of the sleeves. “You don’t have any of our albums.”
“I do.” “Where?” “I have all your music on my phone.”
“That’s not what I said.” Seungmin looked back into the box, pushing several records aside. “You’ve got two copies of this, for some reason, but not one thing with any of us on it.” “That’s sooo not true. One of those was a present, and I literally do have one of yours.” His eyebrows lifted. “Where is it?”
“In my bedroom.” “That’s Jisung’s.” “It’s been beside my bed for months.”
From the rug, Jisung looked over. “Which one?” “The one you left on the floor.” “I thought I’d lost that.”
“You’ve slept next to it, like, twenty times.” Jisung frowned as though trying to picture your bedroom from memory. “I don’t really look at the floor.” “That’s because your clothes are usually covering it.”
He started laughing and the screwdriver slipped out of the screw head. Felix reached over to steady the bracket before it moved. “Okay, wait, why am I involved now?” Jisung asked, still laughing. “Seungmin’s the one judging your record collection.” “I’m not judging it. I’m just finding out that she’ll spend actual money on everybody except us.” “Oh my God, you’re being sooo dramatic. I didn’t even buy both copies of that one.”
“You kept them.” “Because I like it.” “More than anything we’ve released, apparently.”
You put the shelf down and got up. “Move.” Seungmin shifted enough for you to sit beside him, although you still had to push one of his knees out of the way. He immediately rested it against your thigh again. “There,” you said, pulling a record from near the bottom of the box. “You bought me this.” “That doesn’t help you.” “It proves I own something you chose.”
“It proves I have better taste than you.” “You chose it because you liked the cover.” “I chose it because you’d like the music.”
“You said, and I remember this very clearly, ‘It’ll look pretty in your room.’” Seungmin took the sleeve from you and looked at it. “Both things can be true.” An old receipt slipped out and landed across your knee. He picked it up before you could. “Thirty-eight pounds?” You leaned in, trying to read the faded ink. “That says thirteen.”
“It does not.” “Thirteen pounds eighty.” “There’s no decimal.”
“It’s faded.” “The rest of the receipt isn’t faded.” “You’re making that up because you want me to feel guilty.”
“I don’t need to. You paid nearly forty pounds for an album and then stole Jisung’s instead of buying ours.” “I didn’t steal it. He abandoned it.” Jisung, now half under the cabinet again, said, “I didn’t abandon it. I forgot where it was.”
“That’s the same thing after three months.” Minho came out carrying a spoon. “What’s the same thing?” Seungmin answered before you could. “She’s trying to claim Jisung’s album because she doesn’t own any of ours,” Seungmin said. You looked over your shoulder. “No, because he’s leaving out the entire part where I have your music, I have things you’ve given me, and I’m not buying albums from people who bring boxes of them into my flat whenever they visit.” Jisung looked over from the cabinet. “That happened once,” Jisung said.
“You left twelve.” “They were different versions.” “They were blocking the wardrobe.”
Minho put the spoon against your mouth before you could continue. “Taste.” You took the bite, still looking at Seungmin. He was smiling into his glass now, obviously far too pleased with himself. “It needs something,” you said. Minho’s hand stayed beneath your chin. “What?” “I don’t know. It’s nice, but it’s—wait, let me try again.”
He fed you another bite. Seungmin leaned in with his mouth open. Minho moved the spoon away without even looking at him. “You always say it’s fine.” “It usually is. Why are you asking people if you’ve already decided something’s wrong?” “I’m not asking you.”
“You put the spoon near my face.” “I was reaching past you.” Seungmin caught Minho’s wrist and stole what was left anyway. Minho stared at the empty spoon. “That was hers.”
You laughed and leaned back against the sofa. Minho sat behind you, one leg stretched alongside your hip, and took your glass when you offered it over your shoulder. Seungmin found something to put on. The first song began quietly enough that Felix asked him to turn it up. Changbin stopped holding the frame long enough to stretch, only to catch it again when it tilted. Felix started singing under his breath while he worked. Minho stayed on the floor behind you, his palm warm against your side, until something hissed from the kitchen and he got up halfway through a sentence. You tried helping again after that. Jisung asked you to pass him the measuring tape. You stood, took two steps and stopped when Seungmin called your name. He had another sleeve in his hand. “You’ve got three copies of this.” “I absolutely don’t.”
“There are two in here and one by the player.” “The one by the player is Minho’s.” Minho called from the kitchen, “No, it isn’t.”
“You said it was.” “I said I liked it.” You turned towards the kitchen. “You literally brought it here.”
“I carried it from your bedroom.” “That doesn’t sound right.” “It was under your bed.”
“That could’ve been Jisung’s too.” Jisung made a muffled sound from beneath the cabinet. “Why am I suddenly responsible for everything on your floor?” “Because most of it is yours.”
The measuring tape remained forgotten until Felix asked where you were going with it. You looked down at your empty hands. “Oh. I haven’t got it.” Seungmin found it beneath the edge of the sofa and opened it across the rug. Instead of passing it over, he pressed the metal end against your wrist. “What’re you doing?” “I wanted to know how long your arm is.”
You stared at him. “Why?” He extended the tape towards your elbow, eyes narrowing at the numbers. “I don’t know. I thought it was longer.” “That doesn’t even—give it here.” You reached for it. Seungmin pulled his hand back, and you leaned over him farther than you meant to. He caught your wrist when your knee slipped from the rug. The tape snapped shut between you. You nearly landed on top of the record player, but Seungmin hooked an arm around your waist and dragged you sideways instead. You grabbed his shoulder, taking him down with you. His glass tipped, although Changbin somehow caught it with one hand while still holding the cabinet with the other. “Thank you,” Seungmin said, already trying to get one of your wrists beneath his arm. Changbin put the glass on the table. “I don’t know why I did that.”
You twisted onto your side, laughing too hard to get any leverage. Seungmin caught you around the middle and pulled you back against him. “You started this,” you said, trying to push his knee away with your foot. “No, you threw yourself at me because you couldn’t wait five seconds.” “You were holding it away on purpose, and now you’ve lost it anyway.”
“It’s under the sofa. We know where it is.” “That’s not the same as helping.” Seungmin had both your wrists by then, although his grip kept slipping because he was laughing. You could probably have got free if you’d put any real effort into it. Instead, you looked across the room. “Binnieee, help me.” He was holding the cabinet upright while Felix adjusted something near the back. “With what?”
You tried to point at Seungmin with the hand trapped against his chest. “This.” Changbin glanced at Jisung. Jisung was reaching into the cabinet with his entire arm. “Please,” you added as Seungmin started pulling you farther across the rug. Changbin let go. The cabinet dropped with a heavy crack. Jisung ripped his arm out. “Fuck—Changbin, are you serious?” “She called me.”
“She’s wrestling Seungmin. I had my hand inside this.” Changbin was already coming over. He bent, wrapped one arm around Seungmin’s middle and lifted him cleanly away from you. Seungmin’s laugh broke into a startled sound as he grabbed Changbin’s shoulders. “No, wait—put me back. We weren’t finished.” “That was too quick,” you said, sitting up. Changbin looked between you. “You asked me to help.”
“I know, but you didn’t even give me a chance.” “A chance to do what?” Seungmin was still half hanging against Changbin’s side, trying to straighten his shirt with one hand. “She was nearly getting out.”
“You had both her wrists.” “Yeah, but she’d started using her legs.” Changbin stared at him for a moment, then set him down and walked back towards the cabinet without answering. “He’s annoyed now,” you murmured. Seungmin watched him go. “He ruined it and somehow he’s annoyed.”
Jisung pointed towards the frame. “Can somebody hold this before it lands on Felix?” Changbin went back to the cabinet, Seungmin caught your ankle before you could stand, and you both ended up sitting against the sofa, still breathless. You looked at the cabinet from the floor. One side sat higher than the other. The first door was leaning against the wall beneath a tea towel because Minho had said somebody was going to kick the glass. “It looks awful,” you said. Seungmin followed your gaze. “It looks fine from here.” “No, it doesn’t.”
“You’re too close.” You pushed yourself up, walked into the hallway and looked back. It looked worse. Seungmin waited. “Well?” “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’ll like it when it’s done.” “Do you genuinely believe that’s happening?” He looked at Jisung and Felix, who were lying on opposite sides of the frame trying to reach the same hinge. “Not really.”
You came back and dropped onto the sofa. Seungmin stretched his legs over your lap before you were properly settled. The loose shelf beside you had become a table for the wine, Minho’s phone and two half-empty cans. You looked at it for several seconds, then put your glass down with the others. “At least this part’s useful.” “You could just keep it like that.” “I’ve paid for a very expensive plank.”
“It’s better than the cabinet.” You started laughing again, leaning back until your head rested against the sofa. Your phone lit beneath the edge of the cushion. You saw your sister’s name and enough of the message before you turned it over. I know you said I was reading too much into that picture from Mum’s, but Seungmin looked embarrassed. He’s probably too soft to tell you, and I just think— You pushed the phone farther beneath the cushion. Seungmin was complaining about the order of the records now and hadn’t noticed. He’d found one you’d apparently filed in the wrong box and was explaining why it didn’t belong there while you drank enough wine to stop caring where any of them lived.
Minho came back and stole his phone from beneath the bottle. He sat on the arm of the sofa for a while, one hand resting on the back of your neck as he listened to Seungmin talk. Then he got drawn into a conversation with Changbin about where the cabinet was supposed to stand, moved it fifteen centimetres to the left and decided you’d been right the first time. By then, nobody could remember where it had originally been. Jisung had one drink over the course of the evening, taking small mouthfuls whenever Felix stopped to check a fitting. The warmth showed more in his face than his behaviour. He was still focused enough to finish things, but each time he looked towards the sofa it took him longer to look away. He came over once to retrieve his glass and stopped beside your knee. There was pencil across his cheek again. You rubbed at it with your thumb. “You’re making it worse,” he murmured. “You’ve got it in your hair now.”
“Minho tried using a wet finger.” “What was wrong with that?” “He’d just touched the sauce.”
You laughed, still wiping at the mark. Jisung caught your wrist, kissed the centre of your palm and leaned down for your mouth. The kiss barely lasted before Felix said his name from the rug. Jisung stayed close for another second. “I really don’t want to go back.” “You’re nearly done.” “You’ve been saying that for ages.”
“I haven’t. Felix has.” “That’s worse because I trust him.” He kissed you again, quick and warm, then went back to the cabinet with his glass still in his hand. Seungmin watched him crouch beside Felix. “He’s going to give up.”
“He’s too stubborn.” “No, look at him. He’s not even listening.” Jisung was holding a hinge while Felix explained something, but his eyes had drifted towards the sofa again. You smiled when he caught you looking. He lowered his head, took another drink and made Felix repeat whatever he’d just said. Seungmin turned towards you. His arm had been stretched behind your shoulders for long enough that you were already tucked against his side. “You know, this still doesn’t make up for the albums.”
You groaned. “Oh my God, you’re still going.” “I’ve had time to think about it.” “That’s never good.”
“I’m just saying, you’ve got an entire box of records from people you’ve never met, and then ours is apparently too much commitment.” “That’s soo not what I said. I said I already have all the music, you lot leave things here anyway, and I’m not spending money just so you can come over and make fun of which photocard I got.” “I wouldn’t make fun of you.”
“You absolutely would.” “I’d just ask why you picked the version where my hair looked bad.” “You’d say that about every version.”
“No, there were two good ones.” You turned towards him. “Name them.” Seungmin opened his mouth, then seemed to reconsider whatever he’d been about to say. You kissed him before he found an answer. His laugh caught against your lips, one hand sliding from the back of the sofa to your waist as you shifted closer. You’d meant it as a quick interruption, mostly because he’d been talking for too long and you knew it. Seungmin followed when you pulled away. Your leg slipped over his lap. His fingers moved beneath the back of your top, warm against your skin, and the next kiss settled more slowly.
You could still hear Felix and Jisung talking over the music. Something moved in the kitchen. Changbin walked past carrying one of the loose panels. None of it disappeared, but Seungmin’s mouth was soft from the wine and his thumb had started tracing the same small line against your side. You drew back enough to breathe. He came with you, lips brushing the corner of your mouth before finding it again. The forgotten conversation returned somewhere between kisses. “You still haven’t said which versions,” you murmured. “I’m not discussing that while you’re doing this.” “You started it.”
“I know. I’ve changed my mind.” You smiled into his mouth. The kissing stayed loose, interrupted by laughter and the record changing beneath the needle. Seungmin’s fingers slid into your hair when you leaned farther over him. You caught his jaw and kissed him again, slower this time, until his hand tightened beneath your shirt. Across the room, Felix asked Jisung for the screwdriver twice. Jisung didn’t answer until Changbin touched his shoulder. The first door finally closed without scraping. Felix opened it again, adjusted the hinge and closed it once more. Jisung fitted the second while Changbin held the frame. Minho came out of the kitchen and stood behind them with his glass, offering unasked-for advice until Jisung told him he’d lost the right to criticise after abandoning them for dinner. Minho kissed the back of Jisung’s head and kept talking. Eventually, both doors stayed shut. The handles weren’t quite level. The cabinet rocked faintly when Jisung took his hand away. You saw both things. You drank what was left in your glass and said nothing.
Jisung stayed crouched in front of it, opening one door, closing it, then trying the other as though it might behave differently if nobody watched. Felix looked underneath. “We still need to put the feet on.” Jisung sat back on his heels. “Tomorrow.” “It’s going to scratch the floor.” “Put something under it. I can’t—no, I’m actually done. I don’t even want to see the feet again tonight.”
Felix considered the small packet on the table, then tucked it safely beneath the instructions. Jisung got up. You were still half across Seungmin, one hand resting near the back of his neck. Jisung came over and sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, his knee touching yours. He waited until you looked at him. “D’you wanna come to bed with me?” His voice was quiet enough that it sat beneath the music. There was nothing demanding in it. He just looked tired, warm from the drink and far too hopeful for someone trying to act casual. You smiled. “Yeah.” Seungmin kissed you once more before moving his hand from beneath your top. He shifted his legs out of the way, fingertips brushing yours as you sat up. Jisung didn’t take your hand until you were already standing. The kitchen smelled warm and spicy behind you. Minho was tasting the sauce again. Felix and Changbin were trying to move the cabinet without letting its unfinished base touch the floor. Jisung led you down the hallway. He waited until the bedroom door closed before kissing you.
His hands found your waist straight away, drawing you into him with all the impatience he’d spent the last hour swallowing. His mouth was warm from the drink, the kiss messy for the first second because he’d moved too quickly. You caught his hair and pulled him back just enough to look at him. Jisung’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “I’ve been waiting forever.” “I know baby.” You giggle You kissed him again and walked him backwards. He followed without looking, hands sliding beneath your top as the backs of his knees found the mattress. He sat when you pressed lightly against his chest, gazing up at you while you moved between his legs. You climbed onto his lap. Jisung breathed out sharply, hands closing around your hips as your weight settled over him. He was already hard beneath you, hips lifting before he seemed to realise he’d moved. You tightened your fingers in his hair. His head tipped back with a soft whine, throat opening beneath your mouth. “Again,” he breathed.
You pulled once more, then kissed beneath his jaw. Jisung’s hand started higher under your shirt. You caught his wrist and returned it to your waist without stopping the kiss. He left it there, fingers flexing against you. You moved slowly over him. His lips parted against your neck, breath catching as he pressed upwards to meet you. When he tried to hurry, your hand in his hair slowed him again. “Please,” he murmured, and you felt the word against your skin. You kissed lower, leaving the first mark beneath his jaw where his collar would nearly cover it. Jisung made another quiet sound and tilted his head farther for you. The second was darker, just visible above the neckline of his sweatshirt when he shifted. Someone knocked. Jisung went completely still beneath you. A second knock came before either of you moved. Minho spoke through the door. “Honey, your sister’s here. Something about a certificate.” Jisung dropped his forehead against your shoulder. “No.” You closed your eyes. “I know.”
“We’ve literally just—” “I know.” “Don’t answer.”
“She’ll stay there.” “Let her.” You started to move. His arms tightened around your waist for one last second before he let you stand. Jisung stayed on the bed while you fixed your top. His hair was a mess from your hands, his lips swollen and his breathing still uneven. He looked down at himself and groaned quietly. “I’m not going out there.”
“I wasn’t asking you to.” “Good.” You bent and kissed his forehead before leaving him to recover. Minho was waiting farther down the hallway. He’d turned the heat down in the kitchen and had your phone in one hand. “She messaged again.”
You looked at the screen. I’m nearby anyway. I’ll just come up. “She’s at the front door?” “I didn’t let her farther than the mat.” Minho tucked the phone into your hand, then smoothed the back of your top where it had caught underneath itself. “You okay?” “Annoyed.”
“Mm.” He kissed your temple. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” Your sister was standing just inside the open doorway with her coat still fastened and a folder held against her chest. Her expression was pleasant in the careful way that meant she was already prepared to be offended. “Sorry, I know it’s late. Mum was asking about that old county music certificate and I said I’d collect it because I was nearby anyway. I did message.” “You told me you were coming after you’d already decided.”
“Oh, don’t make it into a thing. I’m not staying.” Her smile widened slightly as she glanced past you into the flat. “It sounds like you’ve got everybody here.” “They helped me build something.” “That’s nice.” Her eyes moved towards the living room, where Changbin and Felix were still shifting the cabinet while Seungmin sat on the sofa, turning over the record. “You do keep them busy.”
You looked at her. She adjusted the folder in her hands, smile still there. “I meant it’s sweet. They’re always doing things for you.” “Which certificate does Mum want?” “The cream one with the gold seal.”
“They’re nearly all cream and most of them have gold seals. What year?” “I don’t know. She said you’d know which one mattered.” “She can tell me tomorrow.”
Your sister sighed softly, as though you’d made an incredibly simple favour exhausting. “I was trying to save her having to come over. She’s already got enough to deal with, and I thought it would take two minutes, but it’s fine. I can tell her you didn’t know where it was.” “I know where the box is. I don’t know which one you’re asking for.” “Yes, I heard you.” Her voice stayed light. “You don’t need to get defensive.”
You stared at her for a second. She smiled again and looked over your shoulder. “Is Seungmin all right? He looks a little… I don’t know. Quiet”. “He’s listening to music.” “I know. I didn’t mean right now.” She tilted her head, lowering her voice as though she were sharing something kind. “He’s very understanding, isn’t he? Sometimes I wonder whether people take advantage of that because he doesn’t like making a fuss.”
“Stop deciding what he feels.” “I’m not deciding anything. God, you’re so sensitive whenever I mention him.” She gave a small laugh, almost affectionate. “I just think he’s lovely. You know that.” The bedroom door opened behind you. Your sister’s eyes shifted immediately. Jisung came out rubbing one hand over the back of his neck. He’d straightened his clothes, although not particularly well. His hair was still pushed up on one side, his lips visibly swollen, and the mark beneath his jaw had already begun to darken. Another showed above the loose collar of his sweatshirt when he turned towards the living room. He glanced at your sister, then at you. “I left my drink out here.”
“It’s by the sofa.” Jisung nodded and started past. The collar of his sweatshirt had folded underneath itself at the back. You caught his sleeve, pulling him to a stop, then freed the fabric and smoothed it down before letting him go. Jisung stood easily beneath your hands, attention already drifting towards the glass on the coffee table. Your sister lifted her phone. The movement was quick, half hidden behind the folder, but you saw the camera angled towards you. “Did you just take a picture?” She lowered the phone. “No.”
“You did.” “I was checking whether Mum had replied.” “With your camera open?”
Her expression shifted into mild disbelief. “Oh my God, I didn’t deliberately take a photograph of you. It opened when I picked it up.” “Show me.” “I’m not handing you my phone.” She laughed again, quieter this time, as though you were embarrassing yourself. “I don’t know why you’re acting like there’s something here worth photographing.”
Jisung had stopped a few steps away. He looked from her phone to you but didn’t come back. Your sister’s eyes moved over the marks on his neck again, then returned to your face. Her smile became almost tender. “Aw. You’re always fussing over them.” You heard exactly what sat beneath it. Jisung, already turning towards his drink, didn’t react. “I thought it was sweet,” she added when you didn’t answer. “You’ve got them all letting you look after them. Even the ones you wouldn’t expect.” Her eyes flicked briefly towards the sofa. Seungmin was still where he’d been, one knee tucked beneath him while he spoke to Felix about the record. He hadn’t noticed the phone or the comment. “Delete the picture,” you said.
“There isn’t one.” “I watched you take it.” Her pleasant expression tightened around the edges. “Fine. Maybe I took one accidentally. You were standing there together and I thought—actually, never mind. I don’t need to explain every little thing when I was only trying to help Mum.”
She unlocked the phone, tapped the screen and held it towards you for barely a second. “There. Gone. Happy?” You didn’t trust her, but the folder was still empty, dinner was cooling and you were done letting her stretch the evening any farther. “Ask Mum what year she wants. I’ll take it to her tomorrow.” “I can collect it.”
“I’ll take it.” Your sister looked at you for a moment, then gave another small sigh. “Okay. Whatever’s easiest for you.” She stepped backwards into the hallway. Before leaving, she glanced past you one more time—at Jisung picking up his glass, at Minho moving between the kitchen and the table, at Seungmin curled into the sofa as though none of this required his permission. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Have a nice night,” she said sweetly. “Try not to keep them all too busy.”
You closed the door before she could soften it into another supposed joke. The lock clicked beneath your hand. For several seconds, you stayed there, listening to the lift doors open farther down the corridor. Minho appeared beside you without crowding, his fingers touching lightly between your shoulders. “She gone?” “Yeah.” “Good.”
He returned to the kitchen when you didn’t say more. Jisung was standing near the living-room doorway with his drink untouched in one hand. The marks on his neck looked darker beneath the light now. He waited until you looked at him. “Do you still wanna come back?” There was a little uncertainty beneath the question, the earlier urgency softened by the interruption. He didn’t move towards you or assume the answer. You crossed the space between you and took his free hand. “Yeah. Come on.” Jisung set the glass down without drinking from it. This time, you pulled him towards the hallway. The music followed you as far as the bedroom door. ౨ৎ The music reached you before the lift doors opened.
It stopped halfway through whatever section they were working on, somebody called something you couldn’t make out, and then the same bass line started again while you were still walking down the corridor. The practice-room door had been left open. You slowed when you reached it, partly because you didn’t want to walk straight through the middle of rehearsal and partly because it was easier to stand there for a second and work out what you were looking at. Six of them were in the room. Felix was sitting beside the speaker with one shoe off, rubbing at the back of his ankle while Jeongin drank water near the mirror. Hyunjin was still marking through something despite the music having stopped again, watching his own reflection while Changbin explained where he thought he was supposed to cross. Minho stood a little further back with his hands on his hips, listening. You understood enough of what they were saying to know it was about spacing. After that, they lost you. You’d picked up bits over the years because it was impossible not to when you were dating eight people who could turn a conversation about dinner into a discussion about breath support, timing or whether somebody had been half a beat late. You knew what a count was. You knew what they meant when they said they were marking something. You could usually tell when a formation looked crowded, although you couldn’t necessarily tell anyone why. You were much better at knowing when they were tired. That part was obvious. Seungmin noticed you while reaching for his water. His whole face lit up.
He sat up quickly enough that the bottle tipped against his knee, caught it before it fell and immediately waved at you with his other hand. Felix followed his gaze, smiled and lifted his hand too. You waved back at both of them, and then Seungmin pointed at the empty space beside him. You stayed where you were for another few seconds because somebody was crossing in front of the door. Seungmin patted the floor twice. You laughed and went over. “You came upstairs,” he said as soon as you were close enough, catching your wrist before you’d even put your bag somewhere sensible. “I thought you were going to wait downstairs.” “I was, and then I heard all this.” “That’s a terrible reason to come closer.”
“Hi, Seungminnie.” “Hi.” He smiled again, softer this time, and linked his arm through yours as you sat beside him. “You could’ve told me. I would’ve come down for a minute.” “You were working.”
“They’d survive.” You looked at him properly. His face was flushed from rehearsal, hair damp around his forehead and standing up slightly at the back. You reached over and pressed the worst piece down. Seungmin held completely still while you did it. The hair sprang up again as soon as you moved your hand. His eyes narrowed. “It didn’t work.” “It did for a second.”
“You’re smiling.” “That doesn’t mean anything.” “It means I look stupid.”
“You don’t look stupid.” He made a small dissatisfied sound but didn’t bother trying to check the mirror. Instead he settled back against the wall, his arm still linked with yours, and you rested your head against his shoulder while Changbin started explaining the crossing again. “What are they changing?” you asked after a minute. Seungmin tipped his bottle towards the middle of the room. “The bit after the second chorus. It looked cramped when we watched it back. We’ve moved Changbin slightly and changed where Hyunjin opens out.” You watched for a few seconds. “Is that why they keep doing the same bit?”
“Mhm.” “I thought the song might just be repetitive.” Seungmin looked down at you. You smiled into his shoulder. He laughed quietly, then went back to watching rehearsal. “You’d tell us if it was bad, right?”
“I always tell you when something’s bad.” “That’s true.” “And I’m very supportive about it.”
“That part is debatable.” You started lifting your head. Seungmin immediately tightened his linked arm and kept you where you were. You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. Minho called them back into place a moment later. Seungmin reluctantly untangled himself, squeezing your wrist once before standing. Jeongin passed close enough on his way back to say hi and briefly squeeze your shoulder, then they were moving again. This time you tried to watch the whole thing. Felix rejoined. Changbin crossed behind Hyunjin. Jeongin moved through the centre while Seungmin came forward on the left. He glanced towards you as he passed, and you gave him a small thumbs-up. His mouth twitched. Minho noticed you a few seconds later. His attention caught in the mirror. He didn’t stop or miss anything, but something in his face softened when your eyes met. You lifted your fingers in a little wave. He looked away before the next count.
You watched the section twice more. By the final run, you had a vague idea of what they’d been changing, although if anyone had asked you to explain it you would’ve been in trouble. When rehearsal finally stopped, the room loosened all at once. Hyunjin dropped down beside Felix. Changbin headed for the air-conditioning vent and stood beneath it with the front of his shirt pulled away from his chest. Jeongin disappeared in search of his phone. Seungmin collected his water and came straight back over to you. “I watched that one properly,” you told him as he sat down. “Did you?” “Yes.”
He waited. You knew exactly what he was waiting for. “You looked good.” “That wasn’t—” He stopped himself, smiled despite trying not to, then took a drink. “Fine. I’ll take it.” You linked your arm through his again. “You should. I don’t compliment just anyone.”
“You compliment Felix every time he changes his hair.” “Because he never changes it. I had to say something.” Seungmin gave you a look but let it go. Minho came over with a towel around his neck. Up close, he was somehow even sweatier than he had looked from across the room. His shirt was dark through the centre of his chest and at the back, his hair damp enough that a strand had stuck to his temple. You pinched the front of his shirt between two fingers and pulled it away from him. “Jesus. That’s disgusting.”
“I’ve been dancing for three hours.” “I know. I can see it.” Minho looked down at your hand still holding his shirt. “Then stop touching me.”
You let go of the fabric, caught him by the back of the neck instead and pulled him down for a kiss. He made a quiet sound against your mouth, one hand settling at your waist. It wasn’t long, but he stayed close when you pulled away. You wiped your cheek where his damp hair had touched it. “Still gross.” “You did that yourself.” “I was being supportive.”
“You could support me from over there.” Seungmin made a small amused noise beside you. Minho looked at you again. “How was it?” “Good. Really good, actually.” You glanced towards the middle of the room, where Hyunjin and Changbin were still discussing something while Felix lay flat on his back. “The last few looked better than when I first came in. It wasn’t as… bunched up.”
Minho nodded straight away. “That was the spacing. Changbin was coming across too early, so Hyunjin didn’t have enough room when he opened out. We moved him back half a count, but then Seungmin was having to compensate on the other side, so we changed where he was landing and—” You kept looking at him. You were listening. You just weren’t following anymore. Minho continued for another few seconds, apparently unaware that somewhere around half a count the words had stopped attaching themselves to anything in your head. Slowly, you turned your face towards Seungmin. He took one look at you and folded over laughing. “Don’t,” you muttered. That only made it worse. Minho stopped. “What?” You looked back at him. “I was with you until half a count.”
“That was almost the beginning.” “I know.” Seungmin was laughing into your shoulder now, which was deeply unhelpful. “I understood the bit about it looking less crowded,” you added.
“That was your bit.” “Exactly. We should’ve stayed there.” Minho’s mouth pulled into a smile. “You asked what we changed.”
“No, I said it looked good.” “You were interested.” “I am interested. I just don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
That made Seungmin laugh again, though quieter this time. Minho reached down and briefly squeezed the back of your neck. “It looked better.” “Thank you. That’s all I needed.” “You could’ve said that thirty seconds ago,” Seungmin said. You leaned more of your weight against him. “I was trying to be a good girlfriend.”
“You are. Just not a useful choreographer.” “I’ve never claimed to be.” Changbin called from across the room, “Why are you talking about choreography like anyone asked you?”
You looked over at him. “Aw, thanks, Binnie.” Changbin looked over, entirely unimpressed. “Anytime.” He shook his head and went back to his phone. Minho bent and kissed your forehead. “Give me fifteen minutes, honey.” “You told me ten.”
“We ran over.” “You were already done when I got here.” “We clearly weren’t.”
You looked towards the others, most of whom were now either sitting or lying on the floor. “They look pretty done.” Minho followed your gaze. “Fifteen.” You let him go. Seungmin stayed beside you for another few minutes while the room gradually emptied. The conversation wandered away from rehearsal completely. He asked what you’d done that afternoon, and you told him about losing twenty minutes of your life because you’d gone into a shop for one thing and then couldn’t remember what the one thing had been. “You still didn’t remember?” “No. I bought toothpaste because I was embarrassed to leave with nothing.”
Seungmin laughed. “You might’ve needed toothpaste.” “I bought three tubes last week.” “Why?”
“They were on offer.” He considered that. “So now you have four.” He shook his head, smiling, and leaned his temple briefly against yours. When Minho finally disappeared towards the changing rooms, Seungmin looked after him, then back at you. “He was in a bad mood before you came.” “You said.”
“No, I mean properly. Not angry. Just tired and annoyed because they’d been stuck on that part forever.” You looked towards the door Minho had gone through. “He seems okay.” “He is now.”
There wasn’t any teasing in the way Seungmin said it. You squeezed his arm. He glanced down at your joined hands and then changed the subject, telling you that Felix had tried to convince everyone to order food earlier and had somehow ended up with four different menus open before anyone agreed on anything. By the time Minho reappeared, the conversation had turned into Seungmin complaining that nobody ever wanted the same thing until somebody else had already ordered. “You’re still here,” Minho said. Seungmin looked at him. “She likes me.” “I know.” Minho had changed into a black button-up and dark trousers, his hair still damp at the ends but no longer plastered to his forehead. He looked tired now that he wasn’t working. You stood and kissed Seungmin’s cheek before letting go of his arm. “Bye, Minnie.”
His face brightened again. “Bye. Have fun.” On the way out, you ended up stopping outside Chan and Jisung’s studio because Jisung opened the door just as you were passing. “Oh.” His face brightened. “You’re still here.” “Leaving now.”
“Wait, come listen to something before you go.” You immediately shook your head. “It’ll take ten seconds.” “You said that last time.”
Jisung paused with one hand still on the door. “That did take longer than expected.” “Forty minutes, Hannie.” “You kept talking over the bit I needed you to hear.”
“I was asking whether I could leave.” Chan appeared behind him, looking amused and tired. “She’s on a date. Let her go.” “I just want to know if she hears it too.”
“Hears what?” you asked. “There’s something under the vocal. I can hear it every time the line starts, and he says it’s fine.” Chan leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “I said we can fix it tomorrow.”
“That’s not the same as fine.” You looked between them. “I’m probably the worst person in this building to ask.” “That’s why I’m asking you. If you hear it, then it’s definitely obvious.”
You stared at him. Jisung realised what he’d said. “Not because you’re stupid.” “Great recovery.” “You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.” Chan laughed and caught the back of Jisung’s sweatshirt before he could try dragging you inside. “Go. I’ll deal with him.” Jisung looked past you towards Minho. “Are you getting food?” You glanced towards Minho before answering. “Probably,” you said.
“Can you bring me something?” Chan started closing the door. “Goodnight.” You called before the door could close. “Hannie,” you called. Jisung’s head appeared through the narrowing gap. “I’ll see what there is.”
His smile arrived instantly. “Love you.” “Love you too.” The door shut. Minho’s hand settled at the small of your back as you headed towards the lift. The lift arrived. Once the doors closed, the noise from the corridor disappeared so quickly it felt strange. Minho leaned back against the mirrored wall. Without rehearsal around him, you could see the tiredness more clearly. He rolled his right shoulder once, small enough that you might not have noticed if you hadn’t been looking at him. You reached over and took his hand. His fingers threaded through yours automatically. “Long day?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb along the side of your hand. “We kept fixing one thing and then finding something else.” “You could’ve cancelled tonight.” Minho turned his head. “Did you want me to?”
“No. I would’ve understood.” “I know.” He looked down at your hands for a moment. The lift hummed beneath you. “I wanted to come home with you.”
There wasn’t anything to tease in that. You lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. Minho turned your wrist before you could lower it and pressed his mouth briefly to your palm. The doors opened. ౨ৎ You’d both said you would get something easy on the way home. You had meant food somebody else had made already. Minho had apparently meant food that required less effort than usual. You found him in the refrigerated aisle reading the back of a packet. “That says marinate.” “It says ten minutes.” “That’s how it starts.”
He glanced over. “You say ten minutes, then while that’s sitting there you decide we might as well make something else, and then I don’t see you again until there are five bowls in the sink.” Minho looked at the packet once more. “I want you sitting down tonight,” you added. “That’s literally the point.” He put it back. “Thank you.”
“We can still get noodles.” “Noodles are fine.” “And dumplings?”
“Obviously.” He took the basket from you and started walking again. The conversation moved on before either of you could turn dinner into an argument. You told him about a message you’d received earlier from your mother asking whether you still had a cardigan you were almost certain had disappeared three house moves ago. Minho listened while comparing two packets of noodles, occasionally making small noises to show he was still following. “She swears I left it at hers,” you said. “I haven’t even seen that cardigan since university.” “You probably did leave it there.”
“Why are you taking her side?” “I’ve seen your cupboards.” “That has nothing to do with it.”
“It has a lot to do with it.” You watched him put one packet back and choose the other. “My cupboards are organised.” Minho looked at you. “Mostly.”
He smiled and dropped the noodles into the basket. By the time you reached the next aisle, he had added yoghurt, strawberries and the juice you liked without asking. You noticed but didn’t comment immediately. It wasn’t until he picked up a cereal you actually liked instead of the one already sitting in your cupboard that you looked over. “You’re replacing my food now?” “I’m buying breakfast.” The answer was so matter-of-fact that you smiled. “So you are staying.”
Minho looked genuinely confused. “I thought I was.” “Good.” That was all there was to it. You carried on down the aisle. A few minutes later, you spotted a small cake tucked beneath the noodles. You lifted it out. “You don’t even like this one.”
“You do.” You looked at him. Minho was already comparing two bottles of sauce. You put the cake back. At the checkout, you took your phone out while he unloaded the basket. “I’m paying.” Minho glanced at you. “Okay.”
You should’ve known. You stood close to the card reader while the cashier scanned everything. When the total appeared, you moved your phone towards it. Minho’s watch reached it first. The machine beeped. You stared at his wrist. He started packing the bags. “You’re such an asshole.” “You were too slow.” “I was literally holding my phone over it.”
“You hesitated.” “I did not hesitate.” Minho put the strawberries on top of one bag, clearly more interested in not bruising them than in defending himself. Minho handed you the cake. “Keep that flat.”
“You’re ignoring me.” “I heard you.” He picked up the heavier bag and headed for the doors. ౨ৎ The cabinet was still standing when you got home. You checked before you even took your shoes off. One handle remained slightly higher than the other. A piece of folded cardboard was wedged beneath the left side, and the middle shelf had already developed a suspicious- looking dip beneath your records. Minho followed your gaze. “Don’t.”
Minho walked over and pressed it shut with one finger. The cabinet rocked. You pointed at him. “See?” He looked at the cabinet, then at you. “That’s not because I touched it.” “It was fine before.” “It’s held up with cardboard.”
“Exactly. Delicate. Leave it.” Minho opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he was about to say and carried the shopping into the kitchen. You followed him. Dinner stayed simple. Actually simple, by Minho’s standards. You put music on from the living room while he started the noodles and you dealt with the vegetables. For a while you talked about nothing important: whether the strawberries would still be good tomorrow, somebody in the building who had apparently started leaving their shoes outside your door, a video Felix had sent the group chat earlier that you hadn’t watched yet. Then you remembered something you’d meant to ask Minho days ago. “Did you ever call your mom back about that thing with the cupboard?”
He glanced over from the stove. “What cupboard?” “The one she wanted moving.” “That was my aunt.”
“Oh.” You paused with the knife halfway through a mushroom. “Did you call your aunt?” “Yeah.” “And?”
“She moved it herself.” You looked up. “Why did she call you, then?” “She wanted me to tell her whether it would fit.”
“Did it?” “No.” You waited. Minho kept stirring the noodles. You started laughing. Minho looked over, already smiling because he knew exactly why. “Why are families like this?”
“She said she could make it work.” “Did she?” “She cut part of the shelf.”
That made you laugh harder. Somewhere in the middle of it, Minho drifted closer to inspect what you were cutting. You noticed his hand appear beside yours, quietly pulling one of the mushroom pieces towards himself. You stopped. Minho cut it in half. “Did you seriously just recut my mushroom?” “It was huge.” “It was fine.”
He gave you the sort of look that said it very obviously had not been fine and reached towards another one. “Nope.” You stole it first and ate it raw. Minho stared at you for a second. “You’re ridiculous.” You were still chewing when you bumped your hip into his and reached past him for the sauce. He moved over to let you in, laughing under his breath, and mercifully left the rest of your mushrooms alone. They ate on the floor because the coffee table was still covered with leftover cabinet screws and an instruction sheet somebody had drawn an angry face on. Minho sat with his back against the sofa, one knee bent. You settled beside him close enough that your shoulder stayed against his. The food was good.
You told him so, which resulted in him quietly pushing the last dumpling from his bowl into yours without comment. You looked down at it. “You wanted that.” “I’m full.” “You ate faster than me.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m still hungry.” You picked the dumpling up and held it towards him. Minho looked at it, then at you. “Half.” He leaned forward and bit half from your chopsticks. You ate the rest. For a while, the conversation wandered through whatever came to mind. Minho told you that Jeongin had almost walked into a camera stand earlier because he’d been looking at his phone. You told him about the dog in the shopping bag from work, the woman insisting with her entire face that she had no idea where the barking was coming from. “You didn’t say anything?” Minho asked.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me, your handbag has a respiratory system’?” He laughed, head dropping briefly. “There were six of us in the lift,” you continued. “Nobody looked at her. The dog barked twice, and we all stared at the numbers like our lives depended on getting to the eighth floor.” Minho shook his head. “You should’ve asked what breed the bag was.” You looked at him. He was already smiling into his bowl. “That was terrible.”
“I know.” You leaned into his shoulder anyway. After dinner, Minho retrieved his phone from the counter and pulled up the rehearsal video. You groaned when you saw it. “I’m not testing you.” “You say that now.”
“I want to see something.” You moved onto the sofa and put your legs over his lap while he found the right clip. He showed you the first version, then one from later in rehearsal. You watched both properly. “The second one looks better.” Minho scrubbed back. “Why?” You hesitated. “It just… doesn’t look as cramped. Everybody has more space.”
He nodded. “That’s what we were fixing.” “Great. I’ve learned something.” “You already said that at practice.”
“Yeah, but now I know why.” Minho played it again, then started explaining what they had changed. This time, he stopped himself halfway through the technical part and glanced at you. You smiled. “Thank you.” “I saw your face.”
“Good.” He laughed softly and put the phone down. As he did, his right shoulder rolled in a small, uncomfortable movement. You’d noticed it in the lift. You reached over and pressed your thumb into the muscle near his neck. Minho flinched. “Shit.” You frowned. “That bad?.” “You surprised me.”
“You’ve been doing that all night.” “Doing what?” “That.” You copied the little shoulder roll. “Every few minutes.”
Minho looked down at his own shoulder as though he hadn’t realised it was visible. “It’s been tight since yesterday.” “Yesterday?” “It’s fine.”
You pressed again, more gently. His entire shoulder tensed. “Yeah, that looks very fine.” Minho didn’t answer. You moved your legs away from his lap and shifted behind him. “Turn around.” He gave you a look. “Come on. I’m not doing anything weird. I’m trying to help.”
“I know.” “Then move.” Minho sighed, but he did. He sat on the floor between your knees, back against the sofa. You put your hands on his shoulders and immediately understood why he’d been moving strangely. “Jesus.”
“What?” “This is horrible.” “Very comforting.”
“You know what I mean.” You worked your thumbs slowly into the muscle above his shoulder blade. His head tipped forward, hands settling loosely around your ankles. For a few minutes, you barely spoke. Traffic moved somewhere below the windows. Each time you found the worst part of the knot, Minho’s fingers tightened briefly around your ankle. “Too hard?” “No.”
“You sure?” “Keep going.” His voice had gone quieter. You did. After another minute, you moved his hair out of the way so you could reach higher. His shirt kept bunching beneath your hands. “This is annoying me.”
“My shoulder?” “Your shirt.” Minho glanced back over one shoulder. “I can’t get to anything properly.”
He smiled slightly. “Convenient.” “Oh, shut up.” You tugged the collar. “Take it off or suffer.” Minho undid several buttons and slid the shirt away from his shoulders, leaving it hanging loosely around his arms. You went back to work. His skin was warm beneath your palms. You could feel the tension easing slowly, though the whole right side of his back still felt harder than it should. “You should’ve said something.”
“You noticed anyway.” “That isn’t really the point.” Minho’s thumbs moved absently over your ankles. You pressed lower along his shoulder blade. He exhaled and let his head rest back against your knee for a second. There was something very Minho about the fact that he would quietly carry an aching shoulder around for two days and then act vaguely surprised when somebody noticed. You bent slightly. “Better?”
“Yeah.” “Actually?” “Actually.”
You continued for another minute. Then realised you weren’t really massaging anymore. Your hands had slowed. One rested at the back of his neck, thumb moving idly over his skin while Minho’s fingers traced the side of your ankle. He noticed before you did. Minho turned. He shifted onto his knees between your legs, open shirt still hanging around his arms. You looked at him. Minho’s hand slid from your ankle to your calf. You caught the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. The first kiss was soft. He stayed against your mouth for a moment, then kissed you again, one hand moving to your waist as you shifted closer to the edge of the sofa. There was no hurry. You could still feel the heat of his skin beneath your palms. Minho kissed you slowly, then along the corner of your mouth, his thumb moving under the hem of your top. You smiled when he followed you as you pulled back for a breath. “Hi.” Minho looked at you. “Hi.”
“You’re very close.” “You did that.” “Did I?”
His answer was another kiss. The phone disappeared somewhere between the cushions when Minho moved up onto the sofa. One knee settled between yours, his weight careful even as the kiss deepened. You pushed his shirt farther from his shoulders. Minho’s hand moved beneath your top, warm across your back. “You still smell like rehearsal,” you murmured when his mouth moved to your jaw. “I showered.” “I know.”
“Then stop complaining.” “I’m not complaining.” Minho looked up. You tightened your legs around him. “That’s what I thought.”
You pulled him back down before he could get smug about it. His hand moved higher beneath your shirt, then stopped when his fingers reached the edge of your bra. He looked at you. You nodded. Minho caught the hem of your top and pulled it over your head. It landed somewhere beside the coffee table. For a moment, he simply looked. Heat crept over your chest. “Don’t.” “What?” “You’re making me self-conscious.”
His expression softened. Minho bent and kissed the skin just beneath your collarbone. “My pretty girl,” he murmured. It was quiet enough that it felt more like something that had slipped out than something he’d meant to say. You threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled him back up to your mouth. The lock turned. At first, your brain didn’t place the sound. Then the latch moved. The front door opened. Minho lifted his head. Your sister stepped into the apartment. She stopped. Her eyes went straight to the sofa: Minho’s shirt open, your top on the floor, your bare shoulders. For one second, she didn’t look embarrassed. She looked pleased. “I knew it.” The words slipped out before she seemed to realise she’d said them. Minho moved immediately. He reached behind him, caught the throw from the back of the sofa and pulled it around you. His own shirt stayed open, half hanging from one shoulder. He didn’t even look down. You sat upright, clutching the throw closed. “What the hell are you doing?” Your sister’s face rearranged itself. “I knocked.”
“No, you didn’t.” “I did. You obviously couldn’t hear me.” “You used a key.”
She was still holding it. Minho found your top on the floor and passed it beneath the throw. You pushed your arms into it, but the fabric caught awkwardly behind you. “Wait,” he said quietly. He freed it, pulled the back down properly and straightened the strap twisted near your shoulder. Your sister watched his hands. “I thought Seungmin was your boyfriend.” You stood, keeping the throw around your shoulders. “Where did you get the key?” The question wrong-footed her for a second. “Mom had it.”
“Mom keeps my spare. She didn’t give it to you.” “She asked me to bring your mail over.” “So you took it.”
“I borrowed it. Don’t make it sound like I broke in.” “You let yourself into my apartment.” “I knocked first.”
“No, you didn’t.” Your sister shifted the folder tucked beneath her arm. “You weren’t answering. I wasn’t going to stand in the hallway forever when I had a key.” “You didn’t have a key. Mom had a key.”
“Oh my God, you know what I mean.” “No, actually, I don’t.” Minho stepped beside you. He wasn’t in front of you, wasn’t trying to take the conversation from you. He just stood close, his anger obvious in the tightness around his mouth. “You don’t use someone’s spare because they don’t answer,” he said.
Your sister looked at him briefly. “This is between me and her.” “You walked in while we were half dressed.” “I said I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry,” you said. “You said you knew it.” She blinked. “I was shocked.” “No. You looked happy.” “That’s ridiculous.”
“I saw it,” Minho said. Your sister’s eyes moved to him. “Of course you’d say that.” Minho didn’t bother answering. You held your hand out. “Give me the key.” Her fingers closed around it. “It belongs to Mom.” “It opens my front door.”
“Are you seriously going to pretend that’s the important thing here?” “Yes.” She stared at you. Then the satisfaction came back. “What about Seungmin?”
“What about him?” “He deserves to know what you’re doing.” Your stomach turned, not because of what she thought she’d discovered, but because she sounded so pleased to be saying it. “What Seungmin knows about my life is none of your business.”
“You’re cheating on him.” Minho’s jaw tightened. You kept your hand out. “Give me the damn key.” “You’re not even going to deny it?”
“I’m not discussing my relationship with you.” “That’s convenient.” “No, convenient is stealing my spare and then standing in my living room acting like you’re doing somebody a favour.”
“I didn’t steal anything.” “You took it without asking me.” “I was bringing you something for Mom.”
“Then you could’ve left it outside.” Your sister laughed once, short and irritated. “You always do this. Someone says something you don’t like and suddenly the whole conversation becomes about what they did wrong.” You looked at the key. “This conversation is about what you did wrong.”
“I knocked.” “Stop saying that.” “I did.”
“You didn’t.” Minho shifted slightly beside you. His hand hovered near your back but didn’t touch. “She’s asked for the key,” he said. “Give it back.” Your sister looked at him and then, finally, seemed to register that his shirt was still hanging open. “You haven’t even bothered fixing your own clothes.”
Minho followed her gaze as though he’d forgotten. “I was more concerned about her.” Your sister’s mouth tightened. “Exactly.” You frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“She doesn’t even have to ask.” Your sister gestured between you and Minho, irritation making her less careful now. “You’re fixing her clothes, telling me what to do in my own sister’s apartment—” “It isn’t your apartment,” Minho said. “And he helped because you walked in while I was undressed,” you added. “Why is that somehow a problem?” “I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re clearly bothered by it.” “All of you just… do whatever she wants.” There was the smallest pause. Minho gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “You used a key you weren’t supposed to have and somehow she’s the controlling one.”
“I didn’t say controlling.” “You didn’t have to.” Your sister looked at you again. “You have Seungmin wrapped around your finger. I’m not going to stand there and watch him get made an idiot of.”
That landed differently. You stared at her. “You want him embarrassed.” Her expression changed. “What?” “You do. That’s why you looked so fucking happy when you came in. You’ve been waiting for something you can run and tell him.”
“No. You’ve decided what he thinks without ever asking him.” Her mouth tightened. “I know he deserves better than this.” Minho went very still beside you. You held your hand out again. “Key.” Your sister didn’t move. “Now.”
For another second, she looked as though she might keep arguing. Then she slapped it into your palm. “Mom will want it back.” “Mom can ask me.” “You’re really going to change the locks because I came in once?”
“Yes.” “That’s insane.” “Then it won’t affect you.”
Your sister pulled her coat closed and gathered the folder against herself. The fake sweetness returned, though not as smoothly as before. “I genuinely didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” “You meant to come inside without permission.” “I knocked.”
“For fuck’s sake.” You crossed to the door and opened it. “Leave.” She stood there for another moment. Then her eyes flicked towards Minho again. That pleased look returned. “I’m going to tell Seungmin exactly what I saw.”
“Go ahead.” “You think he won’t care?” “I think you should make sure you tell him how you got in.”
Her face hardened. “I hope you’re this calm when he finds out.” You shut the door. The lock clicked. You put the chain across as well, harder than you meant to. For a few seconds, you stood there with the key pressed into your palm. The apartment felt strangely quiet. Minho stayed near the sofa. He didn’t come up behind you or put his hands on you without asking. He waited until you turned around. Your top was twisted slightly, one strap still sitting wrong. Minho lifted one hand. “Can I fix that?” You looked down and nodded. He came closer, freed the fabric at your back and pulled it down properly. His fingers straightened the strap at your shoulder, quick and careful. Then he stepped away. You looked at his chest. “Your shirt.”
Minho glanced down as if he’d only just remembered. “Right.” He pulled it back onto both shoulders and fastened a couple of buttons without much attention. “She looked happy.” “I know.”
“She didn’t even try to hide it at first.” Minho’s jaw shifted. You started pacing before you really meant to, the key still in your hand. “And now she’s going to message Seungmin with some dramatic shit about how sorry she is to be the one telling him. She’ll leave out the key. She’ll say she knocked. She’ll say I got aggressive when she tried to talk to me.” “She probably will.”
“She always does that.” You turned near the kitchen. “She does something completely out of line, then if I get angry, suddenly that’s the part everyone’s meant to focus on.” Minho let you talk. You stopped and looked at the door again. “I want the lock changed.” “Okay.”
“I know she gave the key back. She probably hasn’t copied it. I don’t think she’s going to start creeping in here every night or anything. She’s my sister, not some random psycho.” You rubbed your thumb over the edge of the key. “I just don’t want to hear something at the door and wonder if she can still get in.” “That’s enough reason.” “It feels dramatic.”
“She used it.” You looked at him. Minho picked up his phone. “Want me to find someone?” “Yeah. Please.”
He sat beside you while he searched, showed you the company before calling and explained the situation simply: a family member had used a spare key without permission, you had the key back, and you wanted the cylinder changed. There was a same-evening callout. The price made you pull a face. Minho covered the bottom of the phone. “They can come in about ninety minutes. Tomorrow between eight and ten is less than half.” You looked at the chain. “Tomorrow. We have the key.” “And I’m staying.”
He booked the morning appointment. Your phone was on the table. Four messages waited from your sister. You didn’t open them. “I should call Seungmin before she does.” Minho sat beside you. “Yeah.” You called. Seungmin answered quickly. “Hi. Did you eat? I was going to—” “Minnie.”
He stopped. You heard a rustle at his end, as though he’d sat up properly. “What happened?” “My sister came over.” “Again?”
“She let herself in.” There was a pause. “What do you mean, she let herself in?” “She took Mom’s spare key. Minho and I were on the sofa, and the door just opened.”
“She—what the hell?” His voice came closer to the phone. “Is she still there?” “No. I got the key back and made her leave. The chain’s on, and someone’s changing the lock tomorrow.” “Okay.” Seungmin breathed out, but the tension stayed in his voice. “Are you all right?”
“I’m pissed off.” “Yeah. Obviously.” He was quiet for a second. “Did she scare you?” “No. Not like that. She’s still my sister.” You looked towards the locked door. “It just feels gross knowing she thought she could walk in because I hadn’t answered her.”
“I know.” His answer came more softly. “That would piss me off too. The key’s definitely back?” “It’s here.” “And Minho’s staying?”
“Yeah.” “Good.” He didn’t add anything about you needing somebody there. You both knew that wasn’t what he meant. You told him what happened in pieces: the excuse about bringing your mail, the way she’d kept insisting she knocked, and the pleased look she hadn’t managed to hide when she saw you and Minho together. “She said she knew it,” you told him.
“Knew what?” “That I was cheating on you.” Seungmin went quiet. “With Minho?”
“Apparently.” “The Minho you told me you were picking up for your date?” “She doesn’t know that.”
“I know, I just…” A short laugh escaped him, more disbelief than amusement. “She really thinks she’s caught you sneaking around with Minho.” “It would be funny if she hadn’t looked so happy.” The laugh disappeared. “She was that pleased?”
“Yeah.” You heard him shift again. When he spoke, his voice was lower. “That’s fucked up.” You heard a vibration against your cheek with another message. Almost immediately, Seungmin said, “She’s texting me.” “What did she say?”
He read silently for a few seconds. “She says she’s sorry to be the one telling me, but she found you with Minho and thinks there are things I deserve to know.” Another pause. “Nothing about the key.” “Of course not.” “She says you became aggressive when she tried to talk to you.” His voice sharpened. “And now she wants to know whether I’m alone.”
“She wants to tell you properly.” “Yeah, apparently I need to be sitting down for the devastating news that you kissed Minho.” You laughed despite yourself, though it didn’t last long. Seungmin exhaled. “I started replying.”
“What did you write?” “I haven’t sent it.” “That wasn’t what I asked.”
He hesitated. “It starts with ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’” “Seungminniee” “It gets worse.”
“Maybe save it for tomorrow.” “Probably.” You could hear him tapping his fingers against something. “She keeps talking to me like I’m stupid. Like she knows more about my own relationship than I do.” “I know.”
“And she used me to threaten you.” “That was the first thing she said after she walked in.” For a moment, neither of you spoke. Minho moved quietly in the kitchen behind you, cupboard doors opening and closing without any attempt to listen in. Seungmin asked, “Do you want me to come over?”
“No. Minho’s staying.” “Okay. I wasn’t trying to make it into a whole thing. I just wanted to ask.” “I know, Minnie.”
He was quiet again, then said, “I hate that she looked happy.” That was the part underneath all his anger. You could hear it now. “I know.” “She didn’t care whether it would hurt me. She wanted it to.”
“Yeah.” “And she wanted you frightened of me finding out.” Seungmin let out a slow breath. “I’m not replying tonight. I’ll tell her tomorrow not to contact me about you again, when I can say it without calling her every name I know.” “That might take a while.”
You smiled, resting your head against the back of the sofa. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked. “A bit.” “Good. Don’t read whatever else she sends. She’ll only rewrite the whole night until she’s the victim.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” “And text me when the locksmith’s been.” “I will.”
Another pause settled between you, easier this time. “I love you,” Seungmin said. “I love you too.” “And tell Minho I love him as well.”
You looked towards the kitchen. Minho was putting the cake onto a plate, his shirt still only half buttoned. “I will.” “Okay. Call me if you need me.” “I know.”
You stayed on the line for another few seconds before hanging up. Minho looked over when you lowered the phone, but he didn’t ask what had been said. “Seungminnie says he loves you.” His expression softened. “I love him too.” Then he held out the plate of cake. You looked at it. “I thought that was for tomorrow.” “It was.”
You took the fork he held out. You ate the cake straight from the container, shoulders touching. It was a little too sweet. You ate more than Minho anyway. After a while, he lifted his hand towards your face and stopped before touching you. “Can I?” You nodded. Minho tucked your hair behind your ear and left his palm against the side of your neck. You leaned into it. Neither of you tried to restart what had been interrupted. When you were finished, Minho put the empty container on the coffee table and held one arm out without saying anything. You moved under it and settled against his side. ౨ৎ Minho had his eyes closed in three of the four pictures. Jisung took this as a personal insult. “You did that on purpose,” he said, holding the strip beneath the weak light outside the booth. His mask had slipped below his chin, and he was still pink from laughing through the last picture. “There’s no way you blinked three times.” Minho took the strip from him and looked at it. “The flash was bright.”
“It was the same flash every time.” “Exactly.” “That doesn’t explain anything.”
You leaned between them to see. Jisung looked delighted in the first photograph, even though only half his face had made it into frame. You were sitting partly across Minho’s lap because the booth had clearly been designed for two people with a much less complicated dating life. Minho looked asleep. In the second, Jisung had managed to fit properly and Minho’s eyes were still closed. The third was the only decent one. Minho’s arm was around your waist, Jisung’s cheek pressed against yours, and all three of you were looking at the camera. The last had been ruined by you. Jisung had kissed your cheek just as the countdown started. You’d clutched Minho’s sleeve, leaned closer to them both and whispered, with considerably more drama than the situation required, “What if Seungmin catches us?” Jisung had broken first. The picture had caught him folding forward against your shoulder, your mouth open because you were trying not to laugh and Minho looking directly into the camera with the beginning of a smile he hadn’t managed to hide. “That one’s the best,” you said. “I look stupid.”
“You always say that when you’re laughing.” “I don’t.” Minho held the strip just out of Jisung’s reach when he tried to take it back. “You do.”
Jisung looked between you. “Why are you both against me?” You looped your arm through his. “We’re not. We’re having an affair.” That made him laugh again, though he tried to bury it by pressing his mouth against the top of your head. It had been eleven days since your sister had used your mother’s spare key to let herself into your apartment. Eleven days had been long enough for the immediate fury to wear down into something flatter and less consuming. You were still angry when you thought about the door opening, and you still checked the new lock sometimes after you’d already turned it. Mostly, though, you had stopped giving your sister the amount of thought she clearly believed she deserved. She had spent those eleven days trying to reach Seungmin. He had spent them avoiding her with increasingly little subtlety. The first few messages had gone unanswered. When she started calling, he blocked her number. Then she turned up at JYP claiming she needed to speak to him about a private family emergency. Reception had called upstairs. Seungmin had told them there was no emergency and that he did not want to see her. She had returned two days later. The second time, security had already been given her name and labled her a sasaeng.
Jisung had told you over dinner that Seungmin stayed in one of the smaller recording rooms until somebody confirmed she had left the building. Seungmin had described this to you later as having some work to finish, but Jisung said the work had mostly involved refreshing the lobby camera and asking Chan whether a baseball cap would make him less recognisable if he used the side exit. You had laughed hard enough that Seungmin hung up on you. He called back thirty seconds later because he still wanted to know what you were doing that evening. Tonight, he was at your apartment while you were out with Minho and Jisung. He’d had a late schedule near your neighbourhood and gone there afterwards, letting himself in with the new key you’d given him two days after the lock was changed. The photo booth had been Jisung’s idea. The restaurant afterwards had been Minho’s, mostly because he knew somewhere nearby with private rooms and food until late. By the time you sat down, Jisung had already put the photograph into the clear back of his phone case. “You said you looked stupid,” you pointed out. “I do.”
“So why are you keeping it?” He placed his phone facedown on the table. “I paid for it.” Minho, who had paid the other half before either of you realised what he was doing, opened the menu and ignored both of you. The room was small enough that your knees kept touching beneath the table. Jisung sat beside you, one leg pressed along yours, while Minho sat opposite. He had taken his cap off but left his hair flattened around the edges, and when you reached across to fix one side, he caught your wrist and kissed your palm before letting you go. The date had nothing to do with your sister for most of the evening.
Jisung talked about a song he’d been working on and the part he kept changing even though nobody else thought there was anything wrong with it. You asked whether he actually disliked it or whether he had listened to it so many times that he could no longer tell. “That’s the problem,” he said, dragging one of the side dishes closer. “I liked it yesterday. This morning it sounded obvious.” “What does obvious sound like?” He paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “Like I knew what was coming.”
“You wrote it.” “I know, but I don’t want it to feel like that.” You understood what he meant without understanding anything technical about what he might change. “Maybe stop listening to it tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning to work.” Minho looked up from his bowl. Jisung noticed. “I wasn’t.” “You brought your laptop.”
“It’s in the car.” “You brought it on the date.” Jisung looked at you for support. You took a piece of food from his plate. “I think you should leave it in the car.” His hand came down over yours before you could get away. “That was mine.”
“You weren’t eating it.” “I was talking.” “You can’t reserve food by looking at it.”
Minho reached over and took the other half while Jisung was still holding your wrist. Jisung stared at the empty plate. Neither of you admitted anything. Conversation moved on. Minho showed you a video his mother had sent of one of the cats refusing to step around a paper bag. Jisung tried to argue that the cat was displaying excellent instincts. You told them about an elderly man in the convenience store earlier who had spent several minutes asking an employee whether a particular packet of sweets was too spicy, then bought three when she said no. “Maybe they were for someone else,” Minho said. “He opened one before he left.” “So?”
“He ate six while standing beside the till.” Jisung nodded as though this confirmed something. “He needed to be sure.” “For who?”
“The other two packets.” You looked at him. He smiled and leaned his shoulder into yours. Seungmin messaged halfway through the meal. Are you bringing food back or am I allowed to eat the ice cream? You picked up your phone and showed Jisung. “He can’t eat that,” Jisung said immediately. “I wanted some.” “You’re here.”
“I’ll want it later.” Minho took a drink, watching the argument without involving himself. You replied: Touch it and I’m changing the locks again. Seungmin’s answer came almost immediately. You gave me a key. Not immunity. The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then came back. Bring chips. You smiled and put the phone down. Your own phone buzzed again. You expected Seungmin. It was your sister. For a second, you considered leaving it unopened. She had sent several messages since the key incident, most of them variations on I was trying to help and you’ve completely overreacted. You hadn’t answered any of them. The preview showed Seungmin’s name. You opened it. I know he’s at your apartment. I’m telling him tonight. He deserves to know what you’ve been doing. You stared at the screen. Another message arrived before you could decide whether you were irritated or simply tired. Once I tell him, he’s going to be so angry with you he’ll come straight to me. I probably won’t be able to walk tomorrow. Your mouth fell open. Jisung noticed first. “What?”
You read it again, half expecting the words to rearrange themselves into something less deranged. They didn’t. “What the fuck?” Minho’s attention moved from Jisung’s hands to your face. “What happened?” You turned the phone towards them. Jisung leaned close enough that his hair brushed your cheek. His eyes moved over the first message, then the second. He went very still. Minho reached across and took the phone when Jisung failed to move. For several seconds, none of you spoke. The nerve of it hit first. Your sister was outside your home again, talking about your boyfriend as though he were something she could collect once she’d successfully disposed of you. Then the rest of the message caught up. You laughed. It came out once, sharp and completely involuntary.
Jisung looked at you, then back at the phone. “She thinks Seungmin’s going to fuck her?” “Apparently.” He read the message one more time. His brows drew together, not with amusement so much as genuine confusion. “He literally asked you to fuck him after me last week.”
You put a hand over your mouth. That made it worse. Jisung was not trying to be funny. He was simply supplying information your sister had failed to account for. Minho returned your phone to the table. “Is she outside the apartment now?” The laughter thinned. You looked at the first message again. “It sounds like it.” “She shouldn’t be there.” “No.”
Jisung’s hand settled on your thigh. “Seungmin won’t let her in.” “I know.” That wasn’t what bothered you. You could picture her in the corridor, speaking softly through the door while Seungmin stood on the other side trying to get her to leave. She had already turned up at his workplace twice. She had already taken a key. Being ignored had not embarrassed her into stopping. It had made her more determined. Minho was reaching for his jacket before you said anything. “I’ll drive you.”
You nodded. There was no argument about finishing dinner or waiting to see whether she went away. Jisung gathered your things while Minho dealt with the bill. You sent Seungmin a quick message as you followed them out. Are you okay? His name appeared on your screen before you reached the lift. He was calling. You answered with the phone against your ear. “Hi.” “She won’t leave.” Seungmin sounded more annoyed than frightened. There was a strange hollowness behind his voice, and it took you a moment to realise he was standing in the hallway on his side of the door. “Have you spoken to her?”
“Through the door. I told her you aren’t here and she needs to go.” You stepped into the lift with Minho and Jisung. “What did she say?” “That she knows you’re not there. Apparently that’s why she came.” His voice dropped slightly. “Now she keeps asking me to open the door so she can tell me something before you get back.”
“She messaged me.” “I guessed.” The lift doors closed. Minho pressed the button for the car park while Jisung stood close at your other side, his hand brushing yours. “She says you’ve been stopping me from talking to her,” Seungmin continued. “I told her I blocked her myself. She said you probably made me.” You shut your eyes briefly. “Of course she did.”
“I asked how you could make me block her when you didn’t know she’d messaged the first time.” “What did she say?” “Nothing. Then she started again about needing to tell me the truth.”
The lift reached the car park. Minho took the keys from his pocket and walked quickly without making the situation feel like an emergency. “We’re coming back now,” you said. “Maybe fifteen minutes.” “Okay.” “She sent me what she wants to tell you.”
There was a pause. “The Minho thing?” “Yeah, but there was another message after that.” “What did she say?”
You glanced at Jisung. He was already biting the inside of his cheek. You read the message aloud. By the time you reached the end, Seungmin had gone completely silent. Minho unlocked the car. You got into the passenger seat while Jisung climbed into the back. “Minnie?” “I’m here.” “You went quiet.”
“I don’t understand why she thinks that would happen.” You pressed your lips together. Seungmin continued before you could answer. “Even if I thought you’d cheated on me, why would I immediately sleep with your sister?” “I don’t know.”
“And why does she think I’d be that angry?” You looked through the windscreen as Minho started the engine. There was another knock faintly audible through his phone. The amusement dropped away. Your sister’s voice followed, blurred by the door but recognisable. “Seungmin? I know she’s probably told you not to answer me, but you need to hear this from someone who actually cares about you.” Seungmin exhaled through his nose. “She’s doing that every couple of minutes.”
“Don’t open it.” “I’m not going to.” Minho pulled out of the car park. “Are the neighbours out there?”
“Not yet.” “We’ll be there soon.” “Okay.” His voice softened slightly. “Drive carefully.”
“I’m not driving.” “I know. Tell Minho.” “I’m sure he heard.”
Minho’s hand came briefly from the wheel to squeeze your knee before returning. “I’ll stay on the phone,” you said. “You don’t have to.” “I know.”
He didn’t argue again. The rest of the journey passed with the phone against your ear. You and Seungmin spoke only occasionally. He told you when your sister knocked again. You told him when you were five minutes away. Jisung leaned forward once to pass you the bottle of water from the side pocket, then sat back without trying to join the conversation. When Minho pulled up outside your building, Seungmin said he could hear a car pulling up. “That might be us.” “Okay.” “I’m hanging up now.”
“Call back if it isn’t.” You smiled despite yourself. “I will.” Minho parked near the entrance. Jisung was already undoing his seat belt. “You don’t need to come up,” you told him. He stopped. “We can wait outside.”
“That’ll make it worse.” “I know.” He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the belt. “I just don’t like her being there.” “Neither do I.”
Minho switched off the engine and turned towards you. “Text when she leaves.” “I will.” “And if you want us back, call.”
You nodded. Jisung reached between the seats and caught the back of your neck, pulling you close enough to kiss your temple. “Don’t let her say anything stupid about you.” “That might be difficult.” “You know what I mean.”
You did. You reached back and squeezed his wrist, then leaned across the centre console to kiss Minho. His hand came briefly to your jaw. Minho waited until you were inside the lobby before starting the car again. The lift took too long. By the time the doors opened on your floor, you could hear your sister speaking. Her voice was low and patient, carrying just far enough along the corridor. “I’m not blaming you for any of this, Seungmin. I know what she’s like. I just think you should let me explain before she gets back and makes everything sound different.” You walked around the corner. She stood outside your apartment with her coat still on and her phone in one hand. Her expression changed when she saw you—not guilt, exactly. More like irritation at having been interrupted before she got what she wanted. Then the sweetness returned. “Thank God. He won’t open the door.” “I know.”
“I’ve been trying to tell him I’m not here to cause trouble.” “You’ve been told to leave.” “I only need five minutes.”
The door stayed closed behind her. Your sister glanced towards it, then lowered her voice as though the two of you were suddenly sharing something private. “I think he’s scared of how you’ll react if he speaks to me.” You stared at her. She genuinely seemed to believe it. The lift moved somewhere behind you. A door opened further along the corridor, and you heard somebody’s television before it closed again. You did not want the next part happening out here. You stepped past your sister and unlocked the door. Her face brightened with quiet triumph. “Inside,” you said. “You’re saying whatever you came to say, and then you’re leaving.” She followed before you could change your mind. Seungmin was standing near the end of the hallway. He had changed after work into grey sweatpants and a dark sweatshirt. His hair was soft around his forehead, and the television was paused behind him. He looked tired, irritated and entirely unlike the furious, sexually aggressive man your sister had constructed in her head. His eyes went to you first. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You closed the door and turned the lock, then stayed beside it. Your sister looked between you. “Could I speak to him alone?” “No.”
“I wasn’t asking you.” Seungmin’s expression barely changed. “I already told you no.” She turned towards him fully. “You don’t know what she’s done.” “Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.” She took a small step closer, not enough to invade his space but enough to make her intention obvious. “I saw her with Minho. They were half dressed. She’s been lying to you.” Seungmin glanced at you. Not for an explanation. It was closer to disbelief that this was the revelation she had spent nearly two weeks trying to deliver. “I know she was with Minho.” Your sister’s face changed. “She told you.”
“I knew before she went to get him.” “No.” She gave a short laugh, as though he had misunderstood his own sentence. “I mean I saw them together. It wasn’t friendly.” “I know.”
Her eyes moved to you, then back to him. “And you’re just okay with that?” Seungmin’s mouth tightened. “It isn’t your business.” “I’m trying to stop you being humiliated.” “I’m not humiliated.”
“You don’t have to pretend because she’s here.” “I’m not pretending.” Your sister looked at you again. “Can you give us one minute?”
“No.” “She’s not keeping me here,” Seungmin said before your sister could turn that into something else. “I don’t want to talk to you alone.” “You’ve never even given me the chance.”
“I’ve had your messages.” “She must have said something to you.” “She didn’t know you’d contacted me the first time.”
Your sister’s fingers tightened around her phone. Seungmin continued, still calm. “I blocked you. I told reception not to let you upstairs. Nobody made me do that.” The flat went quiet for a moment. Your sister’s expression hardened before she managed to soften it again. “You don’t know what she’s like when you aren’t around.” A laugh nearly escaped you, but there was nothing funny in her face now. “She was on a date tonight,” your sister said. “With him again, I assume.” Seungmin answered without hesitation. “With Minho and Jisung,” Seungmin replied. She stared at him. You hadn’t expected him to say it quite so plainly. He didn’t elaborate. Your sister looked at you as though the answer had confirmed something worse than she had prepared herself for. “Jisung too?” You folded your arms. “You came here to tell Seungmin I was with Minho. He knows. You’ve told him. You can go now.”
“No. What does that mean?” “It means what happens in our relationship isn’t your business.” “Relationship?” Her gaze moved between you and Seungmin again. “What, all of you?”
Neither of you answered. She understood enough from the silence. “Oh my God.” Seungmin shifted closer to you, not protectively and not as a performance. He simply seemed done with standing across the room from you while your sister examined both of you. She noticed. “So you just let her do this?” His face changed then. “I don’t let her do anything.”
“You know what I mean.” “No, I don’t.” “She’s sleeping with other men.”
“She isn’t lying to me.” “That doesn’t make it normal.” “We didn’t ask what you thought.”
Your sister’s voice sharpened. “You’re really standing there pretending you’re fine with being passed around between all of them?” The sentence was directed at you, but she kept glancing at Seungmin as though waiting for him to flinch. The word landed harder than you expected. Not because it described anything real. It didn’t. There was no version of your relationship in which you were an object being handed from one person to another. Still, she had chosen it carefully. She wanted you to feel cheap. For one ugly second, you did. Seungmin moved before you spoke. “Don’t talk to her like that.” Your sister’s brows lifted. “I’m saying what everyone else would think.”
“You don’t know what anyone else thinks.” “I know what it looks like.” “You know what you wanted it to look like,” you said.
She turned to you. “You were happy when you walked in on me and Minho. You didn’t look worried about Seungmin. You looked pleased.” “I was shocked.” “You said you knew it.”
“Because I did.” “No. You thought you’d finally found something you could use.” Her face flushed. “I was trying to protect him.”
“You told me he’d come straight to you.” The room went still. Your sister’s eyes flicked towards Seungmin. You took out your phone, though you didn’t need to show her the message. She knew exactly what she had written. “You said he’d be so angry with me that he’d sleep with you tonight.” “I was upset.”
“About what?” She looked at Seungmin again. “About seeing someone treated like this.” Seungmin’s expression had gone flat. “You don’t know me at all,” he said.
“I know you deserve someone who respects you.” “You keep saying that like you’re talking about me. You aren’t.” “I came all this way because nobody else was going to tell you.”
“I already knew.” “And you’re fine with it because she’s convinced you this is what you want.” Seungmin stared at her for a moment. Then he shook his head. “You thought I’d be angry with her and come to you.” His voice stayed even, which somehow made your sister look more unsettled. “I wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know how you’d feel if you understood everything.” “I understand enough.” “She’s standing right there.”
“I told you to leave before she got here.” Your sister’s mouth closed. It was the first thing that seemed to reach her. For nearly two weeks, she had apparently imagined you intercepting messages, controlling Seungmin’s decisions and keeping him away from her. The possibility that he had heard everything she wanted to say and still rejected her had never been allowed into the fantasy. She recovered badly. “You’re letting her make a fool of you.” “I’m not.”
“You have no pride.” “That isn’t concern.” “I’m trying to help you.”
“No,” Seungmin said. “You’re trying to make me want something I don’t want.” Your sister’s eyes sharpened. “And what do you want? To be one of however many men she has wrapped around her finger?” The hurt from before was still there, but now it was joined by something steadier. “Stop talking about them.” She ignored you. “Minho was fixing your clothes while he couldn’t even be bothered to button his own shirt. Jisung was practically hanging off you the last time I saw him. He looked like he needed you to tell him what to do next.”
“Enough.” You unfolded your arms. “You don’t get to talk about them.” “I’m saying what everyone can see.”
“No. You’re saying what bothers you.” You stepped away from the door, closing some of the distance between you. “Jisung being soft bothers you. Seungmin not wanting to control me bothers you. Anything that doesn’t fit whatever miserable idea you have of how men are supposed to act makes you angry.” “That isn’t what I said.” “It’s exactly what you said.”
“You like them like that because it means you can do whatever you want.” “No.” “All of them running around after you, buying you things, fixing your clothes, doing whatever you say—”
“You stole a key to my home.” Her mouth snapped shut. “You took pictures of me without permission. You messaged my boyfriend behind my back. You turned up at his workplace more than once after he ignored you, and now you’ve come here because you thought you could make him leave me.” “I came because you were lying to him.”
“I wasn’t.” “You expect me to believe all of them are fine with this?” “I don’t care what you believe.”
“You think they all actually want you?” There it was. It came out before she could smooth it over. You watched her realise. The question hurt more than the other insults because it was closer to the centre of what she meant. Not disgust at the relationship. Disbelief that you could be loved inside it. You let the silence sit. Then you said, “That’s what you can’t stand.” Her face tightened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” “You don’t care that I’m with them. You care that they’re with me.”
The sentence came out more quietly than you expected. Your sister laughed, but there was no sweetness left in it. “Why would I be jealous of being passed between eight men?” Seungmin’s hand found yours. You held on. “You thought he’d choose you,” you said. “You said it yourself.” “I never said that.” “You said he’d come straight to you.”
“I meant he’d need someone.” “You meant you.” She looked at Seungmin. He did not look away. “I would never treat you the way she does,” your sister said.
Seungmin’s fingers tightened around yours. “You keep talking like this ends with me choosing you.” Her expression flickered. He continued before she could deny it. “It doesn’t.” “You only think that because you don’t understand what she’s doing.”
“Even if I had been angry with her, I still wouldn’t have gone to you.” The words were simple. They did not need anything added to them. Your sister’s face went blank for a second. Then the cruelty returned, stripped of almost everything polite. “Fine. Stay here and let her make you pathetic. Maybe that’s what you like.” Seungmin’s jaw tightened. You moved towards the door. “That’s enough.”
Your sister looked at you. “You’re throwing me out because I told the truth?” “I’m making you leave because you came here to hurt people.” “You can’t keep protecting him from reality.”
“I’m not protecting him from you. He doesn’t want you.” “You don’t speak for him.” “I’ve told you myself,” Seungmin said.
She ignored him. That, more than anything, made the whole thing obvious. She had spent weeks claiming to care about what Seungmin wanted. Now that he was saying it plainly, she refused to hear him. You opened the door. “Go home.” She stayed where she was. “So that’s it?” “For tonight, yes.”
“You’re just going to pretend none of this is sick?” “I’m not discussing my relationship with you again.” “And you think you can tell me where I’m allowed to go?”
“I’m telling you not to come back to this apartment. Don’t go to his work . Stop messaging Seungmin. He doesn’t want to speak to you.” Her gaze flicked towards him one last time. Seungmin stood beside you, still holding your hand. Your sister pulled her coat closer around herself. “You’ll regret this when it all falls apart.” Neither of you answered. She walked past you into the corridor. You closed the door before she reached the lift. For a moment, your hand stayed on the lock. Then you turned it. The apartment was quiet again. Seungmin didn’t speak immediately. He stood a few feet away, watching you without crowding you. You looked towards the paused television. “What were you watching?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, as though that wasn’t the question he had expected. “I don’t know anymore.” You let out a breath that turned into something close to a laugh. Seungmin came nearer. “Are you okay?” “Yeah.” You rubbed at the place between your brows. “Mostly. She’s such an asshole.”
“She is.” “The stuff about Jisung and the boys pissed me off more than anything else.” “I know.”
“She barely knows them.” “She barely knows me.” You looked at him. He was still annoyed. You could see it in the line of his mouth and the way his thumb kept moving over the side of your hand. But he wasn’t broken by what she had said. He wasn’t questioning himself or looking for reassurance that he was masculine enough. He was simply angry that she had been cruel to people he loved. Your phone buzzed. Minho. Is she gone? You replied that she was. Jisung’s message appeared before you had put the phone away. are you both okay Three dots appeared immediately. did she expose you You looked at Seungmin. He noticed. “What?”
“Jisung wants to know whether she exposed me.” Seungmin’s expression flattened. “He’s enjoying this too much.” “He was worried.”
“He can be worried without typing like that.” You smiled and sent Jisung a message. Minho replied next. Do you want us to come back? You considered it, then looked around the apartment. The television was still paused. A paper bag sat open on the coffee table beside a drink with melted ice. Seungmin’s shoes were by the door. His charger was already plugged in beside the sofa. You were okay. No. We’re fine. Drive home safely. Minho sent a heart. Jisung sent four. Seungmin sat down on the sofa, then reached for your phone when you held it out. “What?” “You haven’t seen the actual message.”
“I heard it.” “That’s different.” He took the phone reluctantly. You watched his eyes move over the first message. Then the second. His face went blank. For several seconds, he said nothing. You sat beside him. “Well?” Seungmin locked the phone and handed it back. “She really doesn’t know anything about me.”
That made you laugh again. He looked offended. “Why is that funny?” “It isn’t.” “You’re laughing.”
“I’m laughing at her.” “That’s not better.” You leaned into his shoulder. “Jisung said something worse.” Seungmin immediately looked suspicious. “What did he say?”
You told him. He closed his eyes. Then he picked up the nearest cushion, put it over his face and stayed like that while you laughed against his side. When he finally lowered it, his ears were pink. “He didn’t need to say that in front of everyone.” “Everyone lready knew.” “That isn’t the point.”
You rested your head against him. “He wasn’t wrong.” Seungmin gave you a long look, then reached for the paper bag on the table. The fries inside had gone cold. He ate one anyway. “You wanted us to bring chips,” you said. “These aren’t chips.” “They’re close.”
You took one from the bag. It was terrible. You ate the rest of it. Seungmin found the remote beneath the cushion and restarted the episode from the beginning. You tucked your feet beneath his thigh, and he rested one hand around your ankle while the opening credits play
── .✦ warnings: fem!reader, use of pet names (sweetheart, baby), cringe, fluff.
—1.3k w
Jeongin, famously, did not like skin-ship. He did not like hugging, or affection, or attention, especially from his hyungs. That was his entire image; the cute, touch-averse maknae who was unreachable, even with his own members.
However, when it came to you, it seemed all that collapsed in on itself. He wanted to hug you. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to ruffle your hair until you pushed him away with one of your shy giggles and your hair looked adorably messy afterwards.
That was why, after all. You were absolutely adorable. So adorable it was kind of annoying.
It made something in his chest burn when he looked at you, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts and standing at the kitchen counter, half awake.
Adorable when you were ranting about your friend’s surprise party, your hands moving wildly as you spoke, pacing around the room in excitement as he watched in amusement.
Adorable when you were shy to meet his members for the first time, standing slightly behind him and timidly handing over the cookies you’d baked to Chan, looking up at him with wide, anxious eyes that made his knees weak.
Everything you did, however you did it, was adorable to him - just because it was you.
He’d never felt like this before, never adored a person this much before, and honestly it kind of scared him.
But no matter how new it may feel, he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
———
“This is stupid, Innie.”
Your voice, light and soft despite your words, travelled through the living room where you and Jeongin resided, Chan still busy at the studio.
You were both sat comfortably on the couch, the late afternoon sun shining warmly through the blinds and casting a golden light throughout the room.
The TV, long forgotten in the background, played the nth episode of some stupid gameshow neither of you were ever really watching, the volume turned low.
The blanket, kicked off the couch by the 8th(?) episode, was curled around the bottom of the couch near your feet, cradling it like a cloud.
And in the centre of it all, you were currently pinning Jeongin with a playfully suspicious look, your knees tucked under you and facing towards him. His face, too innocent for your liking, was glowing with one of his signature smiles as he held up his hand as if to give you a high-five.
“Cmon, sweetheart, do it for me? I wanna see something.” He asked sweetly, as if he knew you could never refuse him ever (how could he know that? You thought you were discreet.)
Narrowing your eyes at him, you lifted your hand up to him hesitantly, slowly lining up your hand with his and pressing it against his warm palm.
He couldn’t hide his affectionate coo, as you felt yourself heat up.
His hand completely dwarfed yours, the tips of your fingers barely making it half way up his own. The veins and intricacies of his hand contrasted your soft ones, and the roughness of him palm against yours made you look away shyly.
He, on the other hand, was completely delighted. The sight of your smaller hand compared to his own made something in his chest squeeze painfully. He didn’t think he was hiding the adoration he felt very well, sure you could probably see it on his face.
Intertwining your hands together until his absolutely enveloped yours he couldn’t stifle a small burst of joyful laughter, like he couldn’t keep his love for you inside.
“Aw, baby… so small…” he said, voice embarrassingly breathless.
Ignoring the sheepish, and slightly flustered, feeling of seeing his hands so much bigger than yours, you tried to pull yourself together enough to give him a snarky response, not wanting the moment to get too intimate (in order to prevent your implosion.)
“Why do your hands look like that?” You snickered, face still flushed, beginning to try and pull your hand away.
But before you could even try, he was tugging you forward hard enough for you to fall over onto his lap. Your surprised squeal quickly turned into uncontrollable laughter as he started tickling you up and down your sensitive sides, under you thin shirt.
“Like what, huh?” His grin was obvious in his voice, his sharp eyes watching you with a softness you didn’t quite catch, too busy fighting for your life.
“Like… like… I don’t know!” Your giggles drowned out any words you were trying to say, twisting and turning in his lap as you tried to get away from him. He didn’t stop until tears started to gather in your eyes, unable to resist the sight of your uncontrollable giggles.
Finally, he wrapped his arms around you tightly, tucking you into his chest as you recovered from his attack. You breathed heavily against his chest, smacking him weakly as he chuckled.
“Un..unprovoked..” you croaked unhappily.
“It was provoked. You said my hands looked weird.”
“I did not!”
“You implied it.”
“You attacked me over an implication?”
“I didn’t attack you. I lovingly tickled you.”
You scoffed.
“You know full well how tickling is a form of attack. A very dirty one at that. And there was nothing loving about it!”
“Everything I do for you is loving.” He murmured, suddenly deadly serious.
“Right, right.” You rolled your eyes, but his grip on you tightened, burying his face into your shoulder.
“I mean it.” He whispered.
You huffed another small laugh, smiling softly when he nuzzled further into your neck. You brought a hand up to stroke the back of his head, smoothing out his hair.
“I know.” You said simply.
There was silence for awhile, both of you comfortable in the quiet.
Eventually, Jeongin slowly lifted his head from your shoulder, but he didn’t face you, instead turning so he was practically smushed against your cheek.
You made a noise of questioning, that was apparently too much for him to handle, because next thing you know his mouth is clamped around your cheek.
“Eh!? Innie?” You squeaked, surprised and a little amused.
There was no response for a moment, his teeth gently sinking into your skin in a tiny love bite.
“Hellooooo? Are you a vampire, now?” You giggled again, struggling to speak due to the restriction on your face.
He honestly wasn’t really sure what came over him, just that he couldn’t keep his emotions for you inside any longer. He ached to squeeze you. To play with you. To pinch and bite you. Anything that involved you at all, really.
He didn’t want to hurt you, never that, he just had an unexplainable need to push and pull your every direction, like a kid with a playground crush. He wanted to take up all of your attention.
After poking him in the side for the fourth time, he finally let go with a satisfied sigh, dropping his head back onto your shoulder.
“Too cute…” he mumbled, making you laugh again.
“You’re weird. But maybe cute too, I guess.” You kissed the top of his head, slowly starting to shift away from him.
He hummed in discontent, tightening his hold on you.
“Cmon, I’m starting to feel gross from sitting too long,” you wriggled again, “and I want some tea.”
His grip remained firm, enjoying the feeling of your body squirming against his.
A minute was spent filled with pleading as you tried to reason with him to let you go.
Managing to wrench yourself out of his arms, you ran into the kitchen before he could reach for you again, laughing as you head his groan.
Because despite what he may say about you, you always thought he was the cutest one. His smile, his clingy-ness, his fluffy ginger hair, even his hands (although maybe they’d better be described as hot than cute).
His attentiveness when you were upset, his willingness to go along with all your ideas, his excitement when you took him out on dates. All of it.
Maybe you were ranting now, but you could never hide your love for him and his adorableness.
Yeah, he was the cutest out of the pair of you, and nothing he said could change your mind.
a/n: lololol this is probably rlly cringe im sorry TT i have lots of other things in drafts rn that I need to finish so hopefully I’ll be able to post more soon! Hope u enjoyed <3
tw: huge size difference, he's highkey tsundere-ish, mind-fucked, implied possessiveness, highkey hentai-y written, mentions of creampie, mentions of ahegao, choking, overstimulation, aftercare, spanking, degradation, etc.
thinking about long haired men who are menacingly tall and grumpy-looking as hell but actually is a very swooned person over you and would pretty much bury someone else for you. Long haired men with broad shoulder, dominant posture, greek god physique, and those massive—massive hands that could cover your entire neck in just one grip. Long haired men who's hair would be all over your figure when untied—the second he gets you beneath his heavy weight. Rustling like crazy as he pound those sweet, pornographic-worthy pussy with his monster sized cock. Colossal enough that it makes you felt like you had a rock imprinted into your stomach. He's such a massive tank that it sends your entire frame into an absolute state of tremor the moment he's done with you. Long haired men whose hand wrapped tightly around your neck whenever he doggied the fuck out of you, driving your entire brain cells into a drowning state of overstimulation. Long haired men who snickered in amusement as he stare over your face—whose too brain-fucked to even care about his presence anymore. Tongue out and drooling, eyes pinning at the back of your head, fingers holding onto the messy, cum & squirt lube-covered bedsheets, thighs breaking beneath his frame. And before you know it, a heavy hand went down to cruelly spank your ass as he purred; "nasty little bitch." Long haired men who would fawn over the drip of sweats descending from your skin, starting from your bare part to the most intimate ones—before he began to pick up his pace once more like a restless dog in heat as his skin and yours touched against each other's. Creating a lewd, sticky sound. And trust me that by the end of this—he'll make sure he has rightfully creampied your stomach to the brim just like what you were always meant for him.
Bonus (aftercare): Long haired men who would bath you in a warm, and cozy water, letting you run through your fingers over his thick scalp whilst he gently scrub the soap across your skin. Long haired men who would binge-watch movies together with you after every ruthless sex, asking if you could brush his hair thoroughly in between. Long haired men who would be all stiff but silently joyful when you went to braid his long hair, or styled it into a ponytail or a bun. Long haired men who would gave u long, and slow kisses against your skin as a proof of his deep, aggressive love that would never need a second verification for him to expressed it.
MDNI: Non-con, somnophilia, baby trapping, public sex, no plot just dark headcanons
Yandere! Varka who... gets shitfaced drunk on purpose so he can lose all control, yank your panties to the side in some dirty Mondstadt alley, and slam his fat cock balls-deep into your cunt without warning, pounding you raw while grunting "get pregnant, get pregnant" until he floods you with cum.
Yandere! Varka who... has a life-sized body pillow with your face printed on it. He sleeps hugging it every night, talks to it like it’s you, then fucks it stupid and thrusting his massive dick into the fabric until it’s soaked in his thick loads, pretending he’s breeding your tight pussy.
Yandere! Varka who... steals your dirty panties, wraps them around his fat cock, and jerks off furiously while sniffing them, cumming buckets all over the crotch so you wear his dried seed the next day without knowing.
Yandere! Varka who... corners you after checking your safety, pins you down, and forces every thick inch of his huge cock into your dripping cunt in one brutal thrust, fucking you like a rabid wolf until you’re creaming and crying around him... why complain? he saved you after all...
Yandere! Varka who... sneaks into your bedroom after a heavy drink night, quietly climbs onto your bed, yanks your panties down just enough, and forces his needy big fat cock straight into your tight ass.
Yandere! Varka who... kills the bard who wrote a love song about you, steals his lyre, then makes you ride his fat cock in the dead man’s blood puddle while he strums the strings and growls that your holes only sing for him.
Yandere! Varka who... pins you down with his massive hard body, trapping you completely against the bed so you can’t move an inch while he repeatedly stuffs his fat cock deep into your cunt. He cums hard, flooding your womb, then stays buried balls-deep for hours, plugging every drop inside so none spills out and his seed takes root to baby trap you forever.
☆Embarrassing (cute) things they did before you started dating!☆
with diasomnia! ☆ >masterlist< ☆
Malleus-When did he become this easy to read? When was he this… cute? He often forgets his regal way of carrying himself when he’s with you. When you refuse his invitation, you could practically see a pout on his face! Finding himself in front of your door, he knocks politely, despite the pouring rain outside. Upon opening the door, all you could think about is how he resembled a sopping wet cat. You even catch him sneezing, water droplets dripping from his hair. Isn’t he able to block rain? Little did you know, he was a little too excited to see you. From the looks of it, he noticed it too, looking away from you to calm himself down. A slight blush began to bloom on his neck when he turned.
Lilia- His age was showing, in unexpected ways. Honestly, he never expected to get this far. It started as a fun way to tease you, so why was he actually going through with it? From holding doors for you to pulling the chair back before you sit… wasn’t he practically courting you? Thank goodness he caught himself before he went too far, heavens, he’d even asked if you had received his ‘correspondence’ yet! Surely you would just pass it off as him being the kind and welcoming person he is, right? Despite this, he still continues gifting you thoughtful presents and even holds your hand gently while both of you walk down the staircase.
Silver- Everything seems so much funnier when you say it. He smiles a lot more around you, if you’re lucky, you catch him laughing. Soft giggles that are rarely heard. Even when you’re not telling stories or funny (lame) jokes, he still finds himself staring at you, almost fondly. He never really notices when he’s smiling, unconsciously laughing alongside you. Maybe it’s just… you? When you realised, it all made sense. No wonder the birds and squirrels started coming over, to listen in.
Sebek-He somehow always finds an excuse to offer you his jacket. Too cold? A jacket is thrown at you. Raining? While running, you notice Sebek rushing to the rescue. If you accidentally spill something on your uniform, he’s the first one to lend you his jacket. Of course, he does it in his own way. Through thoughtful nagging and lecturing, you could still feel the warmth behind his words. Though, you probably missed when he would cough awkwardly, watching you wear his jacket with a tinge of blush on his cheeks, glancing away and back again. It’s his duty… totally.
♡ TW: noncon, yandere, arranged marriage, infertility, 7-year age gap
♡ FEM reader
♡ P1: DUD
It's been a month since your wedding night.
You're still holding onto the hope that this is all just some fleeting interest of his—something he’ll grow bored of come time. By this, meaning your marriage.
You try to speed it along by making yourself seem as dull as possible, avoiding him to the best of your efforts and otherwise ignoring him if you fail to do the first—anything to make him lose interest.
Even so, you’d obviously still have to be his wife. Until death do you part is a binding vow unfortunately, and so, even if you could make him regret ever making it, you’d still have to be Mrs Gojo on paper, and be bound by the duties that come with that title, but outside of that, hopefully, you wouldn't have to see his face any more than what was absolutely necessary.
If you could get your relationship to where that was the standard, you’d find ways to make it work. You’d be the wife of a very rich man, after all, it would be a shame not to reap the benefits for all they’re worth.
Odd as it may sound, having a kid wouldn’t be so bad either. If you aren’t allowed to leave the grounds, having something to do would be nice.
But the problem of your faulty constitution still remains…
But maybe… you could hit two birds with one stone… and revert his attention away from you while simultaneously earning something to occupy your attention in return.
“There she is—my little wife,” he comes in cheering, full of lazy smiles and devious eyes as per usual.
You’d been hiding yourself away in the reading room—a place you doubt he’s ever visited—and still he found you, just like he always does. Suppose those six eyes are to blame.
Even if you never really understood what they do, you know it’s something bad, judging by the sight of him.
“Ew,” you cringe. “You’re covered in blood, go wash.”
It wasn’t an overstatement. He literally was. White hair and pale skin all filthy with red. He doesn’t seem to think much of it. On top of you despite your comment, with no regard to the book you were reading, with a chuckle against your neck, drawling, “Don't say that, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
You sigh, disgusted with him more than usual, deciding it was time to put your plan into effect, “How ‘bout you go fuck one of your whores instead and leave me alone.” Cringing under his touch, and how he reeks of rust and salt.
“Aw—you’ jealous?” he grins in your ear.
This time you scoff, teeth grit. “Not particularly. I just fail to see the point in having you keening in my ear when there’s nothing to be made from it.” And with another sigh, you mumble the suggestion, “At least a whore can get you an heir.”
He doesn’t seem to pique his interest. Only snorting at the prospect while he continues in his pursuit of touching you beneath your shirt, “Tch, trust me, the last thing I want is a stinky brat running around spoiling all my fun.”
With a grimace, you veer your head away from his onslaught, feeling his bloody hands grip your waist rough, molding your body against his, into that hard bump kept in his slacks.
You swear, trying to talk to him is like trying to talk to a dog with a bone.
“It’s not as though you’d be bothered,” you continue nonetheless, insistent. “Raising the thing would be my responsibility anyway.”
That actually gets his attention. Stopping, he lifts his head from sucking marks into your chest and looks down at you, now with a furrow between his brows.
“You’d really do that? Raise my bastards?” He questions.
To which you just shrug, saying, “Of course. Seeing as I'm stuck here, I might as well do what I’ve trained to do all my life. It’s my only purpose now, after all.”
His brow quirks, repeating your words as a question, “Your purpose?”
He laughs again then, this time more heartily, saying, “Silly wife… Your purpose is much simpler than that...”
Shaking his head at you before leaning back in, now with his lips just a breath away from yours. “Being mine.”
The proximity invites goosebumps, and so do his words. Feeling a deep shudder run through you. Nearly whining as he continues from where he left off, back with his hands around your waist, tugging your skirt up until there’s nothing separating his fingers from your skin, groping into the fat of your haunches with entitlement and want.
Voice getting gruffer as he gorges himself in your warmth like it’s his personal sanctuary, saying “I'm your first in everything. Your first kiss, your first fuck, your first time making a mess.”
“Don't be gross–” you cringe, but he pays it no mind.
Only continuing, “And I'll be your only one until you die—”
For the first time in a moment, you’re the one who laughs, “Tch—I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Tone mocking as you roll your eyes—he’s so full of himself it’s ridiculous.
His head lifts again, looking at you in dumb askance.
To which you just tilt your head slyly, talking to him like the great big man-child he is, “Oh, come on, Satoru. Are you forgetting what line of work you’re in? You could drop dead any day.” With a sneer, you cup his face in your hands in sardonic affection. “You really think I'll stick around to weep at your grave when you go?”
A groan rises from low in his chest. At first you think it’s a growl, feeling victorious about having angered him. But then he all but moans, “It makes me so fucking horny when you speak like that.”
Kneading your hips, he rubs his clothed bulge against you, messaging you both with the friction between his pants and your panties. Too busy touching you to unbuckle his belt.
His rust is only a heated whisper, kissing your cheek with tongue and teeth as he keeps going, “Knock up a whore, get a brat? I don't think so.”
He pops his collar, and wrings his jacket off quickly. Tossing it aside before bearing back over you.
“Though, it’s funny you think you’d even have the time to spare when you already have your hands full with me.”
Looking down at you with those crazed blue orbs—you wish he’d just keep that infernal blindfold on, the way you feel them strip you bare even with your clothes still halfway on.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don't plan on dying anytime soon.”
Hands on his belt next, he makes quick work of it without taking his eyes off you and that annoyed little face of yours, thinking you’re stupid for ever believing he’d need, want or even be open to sharing it with anyone.
“Nah… it’ll just be you and me playing house all by ourselves. So you better get used to it.”
♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?
♡ FEM reader
♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...
You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy.
The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.
“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.
Did you get fucked up yesterday or what?
Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right?
And yet, by the looks of it, you must have.
It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.
You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.
“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”
Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room.
Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.
“Where the fuck am I at right now…”
Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.
Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.
You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.
Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?
You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.
You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes.
Shit, how’re you supposed to—
“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.
He sets out two plates before sitting down.
He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.
“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”
“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”
You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”
“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”
Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”
For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.
“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”
Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.
“What?”
A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly?
“What the fuck’s going on?!”
He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”
Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with.
Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”
Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?
“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you.
The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.
“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”
Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind.
Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.
In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”
But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”
Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first.
And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.
You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while.
And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide.
Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.
While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face.
You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…
Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…
And that’s when it hits you.
“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…”
You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering.
“Malevolent Kitchen!”
You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.
Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”
“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.
You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…
You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.
There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.
It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…
“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember.
True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit.
“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”
Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea.
“A cannibal?”
You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.
But he doesn’t.
No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.
It fully dawns on you then.
“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”
The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.
And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.
“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”
And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke.
Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.
“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”
The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.
You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”
Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.
Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”
You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”
You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.
You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”
You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”
So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.
In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.
But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”
To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”
—
You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you.
Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be.
He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him.
But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.
He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun.
And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.
Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances.
But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.
You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.
By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.
You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.
“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.
Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.
“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well.
It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is.
But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.
It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.
Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”
You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.
He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.
Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.
“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”
Oh, so that had been your earlier concern.
He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…
Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.
“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.
He halts. “What?”
Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”
Oh, right. He chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.
“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.
“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.
You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”
Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.
“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”
You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”
It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it.
“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?”
Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you.
But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”
He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”
You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”
You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
No, not at all.
Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.
And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”
It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.
And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.”
“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.
He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”
You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.
Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…
—
True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night.
The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep.
Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.
Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.
Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.
He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.
“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.
To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”
You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.
You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.
In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.
“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”
“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.
You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”
You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”
He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”
“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”
You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”
Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”
You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.
“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”
You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.
“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”
He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.
“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”
You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,”
Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.
You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you?
“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”
You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”
With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.”
You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”
He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.
But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”
His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”
You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”
He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”
You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”
—
A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.
He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.
In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.
Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself.
He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.
“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”
He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.
“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.
“No,” he answers shortly.
To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”
He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”
You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…”
Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”
He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.
“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.
“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”
You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.
Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.
Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.
But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”
With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”
Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.
It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.
But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”
You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.
You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”
As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”
It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.”
—
More weeks pass.
The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.
Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain.
Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.
Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long.
Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…
And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.
“Not up to your standards?” he questions.
You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.
During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.
But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.
Lonely is the word that comes to mind.
“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”
He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.
“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”
Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.
It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.
“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.
“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.
It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”
“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”
He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?
“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”
Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you.
“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?”
You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”
In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.
Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.
“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.
But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”
Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,”
And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”
He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”
“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”
Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”
“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”
Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”
Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”
Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.
But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”
Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”
By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing. “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.
“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.
But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”
He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”
His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding.
You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”
“That’s it.”
It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think.
One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.
“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”
And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.
“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”
“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”
Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.
“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”
—
“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”
He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.
No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”
You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”
Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”
♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?
♡ FEM reader
♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...
You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy.
The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.
“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.
Did you get fucked up yesterday or what?
Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right?
And yet, by the looks of it, you must have.
It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.
You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.
“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”
Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room.
Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.
“Where the fuck am I at right now…”
Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.
Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.
You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.
Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?
You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.
You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes.
Shit, how’re you supposed to—
“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.
He sets out two plates before sitting down.
He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.
“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”
“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”
You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”
“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”
Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”
For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.
“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”
Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.
“What?”
A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly?
“What the fuck’s going on?!”
He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”
Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with.
Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”
Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?
“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you.
The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.
“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”
Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind.
Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.
In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”
But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”
Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first.
And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.
You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while.
And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide.
Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.
While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face.
You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…
Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…
And that’s when it hits you.
“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…”
You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering.
“Malevolent Kitchen!”
You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.
Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”
“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.
You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…
You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.
There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.
It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…
“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember.
True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit.
“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”
Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea.
“A cannibal?”
You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.
But he doesn’t.
No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.
It fully dawns on you then.
“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”
The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.
And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.
“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”
And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke.
Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.
“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”
The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.
You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”
Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.
Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”
You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”
You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.
You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”
You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”
So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.
In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.
But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”
To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”
—
You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you.
Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be.
He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him.
But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.
He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun.
And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.
Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances.
But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.
You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.
By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.
You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.
“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.
Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.
“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well.
It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is.
But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.
It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.
Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”
You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.
He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.
Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.
“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”
Oh, so that had been your earlier concern.
He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…
Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.
“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.
He halts. “What?”
Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”
Oh, right. He chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.
“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.
“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.
You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”
Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.
“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”
You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”
It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it.
“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?”
Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you.
But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”
He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”
You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”
You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
No, not at all.
Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.
And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”
It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.
And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.”
“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.
He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”
You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.
Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…
—
True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night.
The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep.
Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.
Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.
Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.
He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.
“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.
To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”
You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.
You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.
In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.
“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”
“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.
You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”
You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”
He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”
“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”
You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”
Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”
You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.
“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”
You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.
“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”
He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.
“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”
You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,”
Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.
You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you?
“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”
You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”
With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.”
You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”
He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.
But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”
His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”
You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”
He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”
You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”
—
A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.
He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.
In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.
Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself.
He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.
“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”
He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.
“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.
“No,” he answers shortly.
To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”
He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”
You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…”
Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”
He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.
“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.
“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”
You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.
Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.
Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.
But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”
With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”
Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.
It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.
But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”
You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.
You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”
As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”
It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.”
—
More weeks pass.
The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.
Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain.
Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.
Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long.
Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…
And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.
“Not up to your standards?” he questions.
You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.
During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.
But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.
Lonely is the word that comes to mind.
“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”
He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.
“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”
Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.
It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.
“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.
“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.
It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”
“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”
He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?
“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”
Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you.
“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?”
You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”
In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.
Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.
“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.
But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”
Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,”
And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”
He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”
“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”
Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”
“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”
Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”
Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”
Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.
But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”
Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”
By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing. “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.
“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.
But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”
He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”
His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding.
You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”
“That’s it.”
It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think.
One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.
“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”
And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.
“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”
“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”
Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.
“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”
—
“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”
He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.
No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”
You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”
Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”
IN WHICH. seungmin's been hired to break up with his client's girlfriend for him, and you've been hired to apologise for your client's mistakes, and two opposite trajectories always end in a collision.
★⋆. ࿐࿔ cw: 18+ / MDNI ! heavy banter, fluff, angst, comfort, explicit smut. minors please do not interact with this series.
( previous )
People are entirely too fucking soft.
Seungmin leans back against the plush leather booth, adjusting his cuffs with a slow, deeply satisfied smirk. On the table right in front of him sits an envelope thick enough to make his monthly rent look like pocket change. Across the restaurant, Giselle is currently storming toward the exit, her eyes watery but her pride intact enough to throw a lethal parting glare at the utterly relieved-looking Jake two tables over.
Another successful extraction. Another happy client. Another beautiful, healthy deposit into his bank account.
He didn't make the mess; he just cleaned it up. If someone didn't have the goddamn spine to tell their significant other that the spark was dead, they called him. He was the buffer, the professional heartbreaker, the guy who took the slaps, the tears, and the dramatic glass-of-water-to-the-face so his clients didn't have to. He did it with a flawless, polite smile that practically forced them to hate him instead of the coward who actually hired him.
Sliding the envelope into his inner jacket pocket, he taps his fingers on the table, feeling a bit smug. Breaking up with Giselle on Jake’s behalf had taken less than ten minutes. Easiest money he’d made all week. Honestly, if people kept being this emotionally stunted, he’d be able to buy a second apartment by the end of the year.
He’s just about to signal the waiter for the check when his phone buzzes on the tabletop, the screen lighting up with an unknown number.
He picks it up on the third ring, sliding effortlessly into his polished, business tone. "Kim Seungmin."
The silence on the other end lasts a beat too long. It’s heavy, strained, and filled with the distinct, shaky sound of someone trying very hard to control their breathing. Finally, a male voice breaks through, sounding rough around the edges.
"Is this... the guy? The one who handles these things? Jake said you... you take care of it."
"If by 'things' you mean facilitating a clean, professional separation, then yes," Seungmin replies, smooth as silk as he leans back and crosses his legs. "To whom am I speaking?"
"Heeseung. Lee Heeseung," the voice says. It’s incredibly tight, like the guy is actively swallowing down a massive lump in his throat. There's an awkward, hesitant pause before he speaks again, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a little too defensive. "I got your number from someone who knows Jake. Look, I... I need you to end things with my girlfriend. Her name is Yunjin."
Seungmin pulls a small notebook from his pocket, clicking his pen with a sharp thwack. "Alright, Heeseung. And what's the timeline on this? Any specific message you want delivered?"
"Just... tell her it's over," Heeseung chokes out. His voice suddenly drops an octave, thick with a raw, bleeding kind of hurt. He clears his throat quickly, trying to mask it, but he's doing a terrible job. "Tell her I can't do this anymore. I'm done. I'm just... I'm completely done."
"Understood," Seungmin says, his pen hovering over the paper. "Is there a specific reason you'd like me to cite? Incompatibility? Career focus? It helps smooth things over if there’s a standard line."
"Tell her..." Heeseung lets out a harsh, bitter laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. "Tell her that if she thinks so little of me, she shouldn't have stayed for five years. Tell her I'm sorry I'm such a disgusting, cheating liar."
Seungmin raises an eyebrow. Usually, he charges a premium for cheaters because the exes tend to throw heavier objects. But before Seungmin can even mention the fee adjustment, Heeseung keeps talking, his voice cracking completely.
"She didn't even let me speak, man," Heeseung mumbles, sounding like a guy bleeding out on a sidewalk. He seems to forget he’s talking to a hired stranger entirely. "I spent weeks planning this. I just wanted to surprise her for our anniversary. I went through so much trouble to get that fucking table, and she just... she walked up, threw a whole iced americano at my chest, called me a piece of shit, and walked out. In front of everyone."
A heavy, ragged breath rattles through the line.
"Five years," Heeseung whispers, and the sheer amount of desperate, pathetic longing in his voice is almost uncomfortable to listen to. "Five years, and she really thought I’d just throw it away? She didn't even trust me enough to ask a single question. She just blocked me. On everything. If she's that quick to believe the worst of me... then what are we even doing? I can't look at her right now. I can't face her knowing she looks at me and sees a monster. So just... do it. End it."
Seungmin blinks, staring at his notebook.
He doesn't know Heeseung personally. To him, the guy is just another voice on the line, another invoice to send. But Seungmin hadn't been doing this for years without learning how to read betweeen the lines. Heeseung was deeply in love with his girlfriend. He was breaking up because he was too deeply hurt and humiliated to stay.
It’s a massive, textbook misunderstanding. Anyone with half a brain could see it.
Did Seungmin ask questions? Never. Did he offer relationship counseling? Absolutely not. He was paid exactly enough to avoid caring about the messy, tragic psychology of his clients. If he started playing therapist, he’d be broke and emotionally exhuasted.
"Consider it done," Seungmin says, his voice entirely detached from the heavy grief vibrating through the speaker. He ignores the americano, the anniversary, and the obvious heartbreak. "I'll send over my rates and the contract template via SMS. Once the initial retainer is cleared, I'll schedule the meeting with Yunjin."
"Yeah. Fine. Whatever it costs," Heeseung mutters, sounding entirely drained, his anger completely evaporating into exhausion. "Just... get it over with. Please."
The line goes dead.
Seungmin spins his pen between his fingers, looking down at the blank page in his notebook. He knows, with absolute certainty, that this is going to be a complete and utter disaster. Heeseung is misreable, the girlfriend is probably going to be hysterical, and a simple conversation could fix the whole thing.
But as Seungmin looks down at his phone and sees the notification for his latest bank transfer from Jake, he lets out a quiet huff of a laugh and closes the notebook.
What is he going to do about Heeseung's obvious heartbreak? Absolutely nothing. He has bills to pay, and a miserable client pays jsut as well as a happy one.
Synopsis: When your sister tries to steal Seungmin, he makes one thing painfully clear: he only has eyes for you.
A/n: omgg this took so long to edit ive been putting this off for ages but i finally did it! I also couldn’t help but sprinkle in some poly skz x reader lmaooa
Wc: 20.1k
The first warning came when your sister texted you three times that morning to ask exactly when you and Seungmin would be arriving. The second came when she opened the front door wearing a dress you distinctly remembered her describing as far too nice for family things.
You looked at her. She looked at you.
Neither of you said anything for a moment. Then Seungmin appeared behind you, one hand holding a neatly wrapped cake box and the other resting comfortably against the small of your back. “Hi,” he said brightly. Your sister’s entire expression changed.
“Seungmin.” She smiled as though she had been expecting him personally. “Finally.” You glanced over your shoulder at him. He glanced down at you. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
Finally? You bit the inside of your cheek. Your sister stepped aside to let you both in, although she somehow managed to position herself so Seungmin had to pass close to her. He murmured a polite thank you and guided you ahead of him with a gentle hand at your waist. You had been dating long enough that the gesture barely registered anymore. Seungmin was always touching you in small, absent-minded ways—his fingers brushing yours as you walked, his palm settling on your knee beneath tables, his hand finding the back of your coat when you crossed a road.
It was rarely dramatic. It was simply constant. Your sister noticed. Her gaze dropped to his hand before moving back to his face.
“You look different in person,” she told him. Seungmin paused while removing his shoes. “Do I?” “Better.”
You turned away before either of them could see your smile. Seungmin placed his shoes neatly beside yours, then leaned closer to whisper, “Am I supposed to say she does too?” “No.” “Good.”
You elbowed him lightly. He caught your arm and squeezed it against his side, looking pleased with himself. Your sister was still watching. “You brought something?” she asked, nodding towards the box in his hand.
“Cake,” Seungmin said. “Your mum said she liked the one from that bakery near our flat.” “That was thoughtful.” “She sent him a photograph of it with the address circled,” you said. Seungmin looked offended.
“She provided helpful guidance.” “She threatened to disown me if we arrived without it.” “Still thoughtful.” “You didn’t even pay for it.”
“I carried it.” “You made me carry it on the train.” “For part of the journey.” “You said your arm hurt.”
“It did.” “Because you spent the entire morning playing games.” Seungmin smiled at your sister. “She has no sympathy for my suffering.” “None,” you confirmed.
Your sister laughed a little too enthusiastically. Not because the conversation had been particularly funny, but because Seungmin was smiling while he said it. You noticed. You also noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear before asking, “Do you want me to take that for you?”
She reached for the cake. Seungmin shifted it away automatically. “No, it’s all right. I’ve been entrusted with it.” “He’ll cry if anything happens to it,” you said.
“I’ll tell your mum it was your fault.” “You see what I live with?” Seungmin bumped his shoulder against yours. “You love it.” You opened your mouth to disagree.
He looked down at you expectantly, the beginnings of a grin already pulling at his lips. You hated how well he knew you. “Whatever,” you said. “There it is.”
He bent and pressed a quick kiss to your temple before following the sound of your mother calling from the kitchen. Your sister remained by the door with you. She watched him leave. Then she looked at you.
“You never said he was that handsome.” You blinked. “You’ve seen photographs.” “Photographs are different.” “I suppose.”
“He’s taller than I thought.” You stared at her. She stared back, seemingly unaware that there was anything strange about the intensity of her assessment. “Do you need his measurements?” you asked. “I can check the label in his coat.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was only saying.” “Right.” “You don’t have to be weird about it.”
“I’m not being weird.” “You’re doing that face.” “What face?” “The face you do when you think you’re funny.”
“I am funny.” “Seungmin clearly thinks so.” There was something strange beneath the words. Something slightly too pointed. Before you could decide whether you had imagined it, she smiled and linked her arm through yours.
“Come on. Mum’s been panicking over lunch for an hour.” She pulled you towards the kitchen as though nothing had happened. You let her. At that point, it was easier.
౨ৎ
Your mum adored Seungmin. That was hardly news. She adored him because he arrived on time, complimented her cooking, remembered details from conversations they had months ago and always insisted on helping clear the table. Your dad liked him because Seungmin could discuss football with convincing enthusiasm and had once spent nearly forty minutes helping him fix a temperamental television.
Even your relatives who had only met Seungmin briefly tended to approve of him. He was polite without seeming rehearsed, funny without demanding attention and attentive in a way that made people feel remembered. Your sister had apparently taken all of these qualities as an invitation. At first, you didn’t think much of it.
She asked him about work. Normal. She asked about the other members. Also normal. She asked whether he enjoyed travelling, what food he liked and whether he preferred going out or staying at home. A little interview-like, perhaps, but not particularly suspicious.
Then she moved from the chair opposite him to the empty one beside him when your mother asked her to fetch another plate. You looked at the abandoned chair. Then at her. She smiled innocently and crossed one leg over the other.
Seungmin glanced towards you. You were sitting on his other side, close enough that your knees touched beneath the table. He nudged your foot. You nudged him back.
His mouth twitched. Your sister leaned towards him. “So,” she said, “what did you think when you first met her?” You nearly inhaled your drink.
Seungmin turned towards you slowly. “Oh, no,” you said. His eyes brightened. “Oh, yes.”
“Don’t.” “I thought she was very strange.” Your mother laughed from the other end of the table. You stared at him. “That isn’t what you said before.”
“You told me not to embarrass you in front of your family.” “And this is you behaving?” “This is me being generous.” Your sister laughed, resting her hand against Seungmin’s arm.
It was light. Brief enough that she could claim it meant nothing. Still, you saw it. Seungmin looked down at her fingers. Your sister removed them a moment later, smiling as though the contact had been accidental.
“What did you actually think?” she asked. Seungmin looked back at you. The teasing softened around the edges. “I thought she was pretty.”
The answer was simple enough to make warmth spread through your chest. Then his smile returned. “Until she spoke.” You kicked his shin beneath the table.
He flinched dramatically. “See?” he told your family. “Violence.” “You deserved that.” “I complimented you.”
“You immediately ruined it.” “I said you were pretty.” “You said I was strange.” “You are strange.”
Your sister tilted her head. “I suppose you must usually date girls who are quite different from her.” The sentence slipped into the conversation so smoothly that it took you a second to understand it. Seungmin frowned slightly. “Different how?”
Your sister shrugged. “You know. More… elegant.” Your father suddenly became very interested in cutting his food. Your mother looked up.
You glanced down at yourself. You were wearing a jumper and trousers. Nothing particularly inelegant, unless your sister was counting the tiny mark on your sleeve from where Seungmin had flicked sauce at you in the kitchen. Seungmin followed your gaze. Then he looked at your sister.
“No,” he said. “I like this one.” You pressed your lips together. “This one?” you repeated. He patted your knee beneath the table.
“My favourite.” “I’m so flattered.” “You should be.” Your sister laughed, but there was something strained about it.
“I only meant that you seem very put together.” “I’m not,” Seungmin said cheerfully. “She found me looking for my phone this morning while I was talking to someone on it.” He looked towards your mother. “You raised a very critical daughter.” Your mum smiled. “She gets it from me.”
“Good to know.” The conversation moved on, but your sister did not return to her original chair. Every few minutes, she found another reason to address Seungmin directly. Did he like the food?
Had he visited the restaurant she mentioned? Did he think her hair looked better dark or light? That one made you turn. She lifted a section of her hair between her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking of changing it,” she explained. “What do you think?” Seungmin blinked. “I don’t know.” “You must have a preference.”
“For your hair?” She laughed as though he had made a joke. “Generally.” He looked at you. You had stopped pretending not to listen.
A hint of mischief appeared in his expression. “I like hers.” You narrowed your eyes. “You said I’d look good bald.” “You would.”
“That doesn’t count.” “It shows versatility.” Your sister’s hand fell from her hair. “You’re lucky,” she told you.
The words sounded pleasant. The way she looked at Seungmin did not. You raised an eyebrow. “I know.” “I mean, you’ve never really cared about things like that.”
“Things like what?” “Your appearance.” Silence settled over the table. It wasn’t complete silence. Your father’s fork scraped faintly against his plate, and the clock in the hallway continued ticking.
But the conversation stopped. Your sister smiled as though she had offered you a compliment. “You’ve always been confident enough not to bother,” she added. You knew this routine.
It had existed long before Seungmin. Your sister would say something cruel with a pleasant expression, and if you reacted, she would insist you had misunderstood. That she admired your confidence. That she wished she could leave the house without making an effort. That you were lucky not to care what people thought. Normally, you could ignore it. Today, the comment felt particularly childish.
You opened your mouth, but Seungmin spoke first. “She spent forty minutes choosing that jumper.” You turned towards him in disbelief. Your sister laughed.
Seungmin continued, “Then she asked me which trousers looked better and ignored my answer.” You nudged his side with your elbow. He caught your hand before you could pull it away and linked your fingers beneath the table. The gesture was concealed from everyone else.
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles. You understood what he was doing. He hadn’t ignored your sister’s comment. He had simply refused to let it settle over you.
“She looks lovely,” your mother said firmly. “She does,” Seungmin agreed. Your sister’s smile tightened. “I never said she didn’t.”
“No one said you did,” you replied. Her gaze met yours. For a moment, something sharp passed between you. Then Seungmin squeezed your hand and leaned close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours.
“You have something on your face,” he whispered. You immediately touched your cheek. “Where?” “The other side.” You touched the other cheek.
“No, lower.” “Seungmin.” “A little lower.” You glared at him. “There’s nothing there, is there?”
He smiled. “You’re so easy.” You tried to pull your hand from his. He tightened his grip.
“Don’t be sulky.” “I hate you.” Your sister watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. You barely noticed.
౨ৎ
After lunch, your mother attempted to stop Seungmin from helping with the dishes. Seungmin ignored her. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, collected the empty plates and followed you into the kitchen. Your sister followed him.
Naturally. “You don’t have to do that,” she told him, taking a plate from his hands. “It’s fine.” “You’re a guest.”
“So is she.” Seungmin nodded towards you. You were leaning against the counter eating a piece of cake. Your sister looked at you.
“She’s family.” “She isn’t helping.” “I’m supervising,” you said. “You’re eating the dessert we haven’t served yet.”
“I’m checking it for poison.” Seungmin set the plates beside the sink. “And?” You took another bite.
“Still collecting evidence.” He reached towards your plate. You moved it out of reach. “Get your own.”
“I bought it.” “I paid for it.” “With our money.” “We don’t have shared finances.”
Your sister laughed again. “You two are funny.” You glanced at her. The compliment sounded genuine enough, but her eyes remained fixed on Seungmin.
He turned on the tap. Your sister stepped beside him. “I’ll wash,” she offered. “I can do it.”
“You dry, then.” You watched her pick up a sponge. Your mother called your name from the living room, asking whether you could help her find something. You pushed yourself away from the counter.
“Don’t eat my cake,” you warned Seungmin. “I would never.” “You absolutely would.” He placed one hand over his heart.
“Your lack of trust is upsetting.” You pointed the fork at him. “I’ll know.” “Go away.” You reluctantly carried the plate with you.
As you left the kitchen, you glanced back. Your sister had moved slightly closer to Seungmin. He was focused on rinsing a plate. You nearly stayed.
Then you caught yourself. It was your sister. Seungmin was your boyfriend. Nothing was going to happen because the two of them spent ninety seconds alone beside a sink.
You found your mother’s glasses on top of her head, endured several minutes of her insisting she had already checked there and returned to the kitchen. Your sister was speaking. “…must get tiring.” Seungmin passed her another plate. “What does?”
“Dating someone so different from you.” You stopped just outside the doorway. Seungmin didn’t appear to notice you. He frowned. “You’ve said that a few times.”
“I don’t mean it badly.” “What do you mean?” Your sister dried the plate slowly. “You’re very disciplined. Ambitious. You take care of yourself.”
He waited. “And she isn’t?” “She’s just more relaxed.” Seungmin looked down at the soapy water.
You knew that expression. He was choosing his words. Your sister mistook his silence for agreement. “I’ve always been more like you,” she continued. “Even when we were younger. People used to say I was the more responsible one.”
“Did they?” “And the more confident one.” Seungmin made a small sound that could have meant anything. Your sister smiled.
“It’s funny, really. Most people usually notice me first.” He glanced at her. “Okay.” You pressed your lips together.
She appeared thrown by the response. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant.” “Then don’t.” The answer was delivered so lightly that for a second, you wondered whether you had heard him correctly.
Your sister laughed uncertainly. “I’m only being honest.” Seungmin rinsed another plate. “About people noticing you?”
“Yes.” “Congratulations.” You had to cover your mouth. Your sister’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You must have noticed that we’re quite different.” “I’ve noticed.” “I’m probably more like your usual type.” Seungmin finally turned off the tap.
He looked at her properly. “What’s my usual type?” Your sister leaned one hip against the counter. “Confident. Sophisticated.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” “I’m guessing.” “You’ve guessed wrong.” She smiled as though he were teasing her.
“Have I?” “Yes.” Something about his tone should have ended the conversation. It didn’t.
Your sister lowered her voice. “She’s always been the sweeter one, I suppose. Men tend to like that.” Seungmin stared at her. Then his gaze moved past her shoulder and found you standing in the doorway.
His expression changed immediately. The irritation disappeared behind a slow, knowing smile. “How long have you been there?” he asked. Your sister turned sharply.
You lifted your plate. “Long enough to know you’ve been having a very interesting discussion about your type.” Seungmin dried his hands. “Apparently, I have one.”
“Do you?” “I’m learning a lot today.” Your sister straightened. “We were only talking.” “I heard.”
“There’s no need to make it strange.” You stepped into the kitchen and placed your half-finished cake on the counter. “I didn’t.” “No, but you’re doing that thing where you act territorial.”
Seungmin’s eyebrows rose. You laughed. “Territorial?” “You don’t need to hover every time another woman speaks to your boyfriend.” “I was helping Mum.”
“And then you came straight back.” “Because this is where my cake is.” Seungmin immediately reached for your plate. You slapped his hand away.
“See?” He looked wounded. “You care more about that cake than you care about me.” “The cake has never stolen my crisps.”
“It would if it could.” Your sister sighed. “You’re both impossible.” “Thank you,” Seungmin said.
You picked up your fork again. Your sister gave you a long look before placing the tea towel on the counter. “I’m going to see if Mum needs anything.” “She doesn’t,” you said. “Her glasses were on her head.”
Your sister ignored you and left. You waited until her footsteps had faded down the hall. Then you turned towards Seungmin. He was already looking at you.
A smile pulled at your mouth. “Your usual type?” He groaned and leaned back against the sink. “Please don’t.”
“So much like her.” Seungmin reached for you. You dodged around the kitchen island, laughing when he followed. “I’m only being honest,” you said, mimicking your sister’s voice.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.” “Apparently she’s the woman of your dreams.” “My dreams have better conversational skills.” You gasped. “That was mean.”
“It was accurate.” He moved to one side of the island. You moved in the opposite direction. “I thought you liked confident women.”
“I like you.” “That wasn’t the question.” “It’s my answer.” “You’re only saying that because I caught you.”
“Caught me doing dishes?” “Seductively.” “I was wearing rubber gloves.” “Exactly. Very provocative.”
Seungmin stopped. You stopped too, watching him suspiciously from across the island. His expression softened. “Did that bother you?”
The question was quiet enough to dissolve some of your amusement. You considered it. “Not really.” “Not really?”
“I don’t think you’re secretly going to run away with my sister.” “That’s reassuring.” “I’d give you at least a week before you begged me to take you back.” “A week?”
“Maybe four days.” Seungmin looked offended. “I wouldn’t make it through the first evening.” You smiled. He continued to watch you.
“But?” he prompted. You looked down at your cake. “She does that sometimes.” “Does what?”
“Compares us.” You scraped your fork lightly through the icing. “She always has. She thinks she’s being subtle.” “She isn’t.” “I know.” “She also thinks I’m an idiot.”
You laughed. “Why?” “Because I’ve said I like you at least twelve times today, and she’s decided that means I’m interested in her.” “Maybe you’re sending mixed signals.” “I asked her to move because she was standing on my foot.”
“Very flirtatious.” “She apologised and touched my arm.” “Scandalous.” “She’s touched my arm six times.”
“You counted?” “I started counting when she asked whether I thought she looked better with dark hair.” You laughed again, and Seungmin smiled. Then he walked around the island.
This time, you let him reach you. His hands settled on your waist, drawing you between his knees as he leaned back against the counter. “For the record,” he said, “I don’t think you’re lucky.” “No?”
“No. I think I’m incredibly brave.” You flicked his shoulder. He caught your wrist and kissed your palm. “And lucky,” he added.
“That was nearly sweet.” “Don’t tell anyone.” You rolled your eyes, but your arms slipped around his shoulders. He tilted his head.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine.” “Your sister’s being strange.” “She thinks she can steal you.”
“Can she?” You pretended to consider it. Seungmin pinched your side. You squealed and tried to twist away, but he trapped you against him.
“Answer carefully,” he warned. “I don’t know. She is very sophisticated.” Another pinch. “And confident!”
He attacked your other side. You dissolved into helpless laughter, nearly dropping your fork as you attempted to escape. “Seungmin!” “Wrong answer.”
“She’s your type!” “Take it back.” “Never!” He caught both your wrists in one hand and used the other to tickle your waist.
You kicked uselessly at his legs. “You’re horrible!” “Take it back.” “Fine!” you gasped. “She isn’t your type.”
“And?” “And you don’t want her.” “And?” You stared at him, breathless.
His hair had fallen over his forehead during the struggle, and his smile was bright and boyish and entirely too pleased. “And you’re obsessed with me.” “There we go.” He released your wrists.
You immediately smacked his chest. Seungmin laughed and caught you against him again, pressing a noisy kiss to your cheek before you could complain. “You’re very annoying,” you told him. “You were laughing.”
“Against my will.” He kissed your other cheek. “Still counts.” Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
You both separated just before your mother entered the kitchen. She looked at Seungmin’s messy hair, your flushed face and the abandoned washing-up. Neither of you spoke. Your mother sighed.
“The dishes, Seungmin.” “I was doing them.” “He attacked me,” you said. “You provoked me.”
Your mother pointed at the sink. “Both of you.” “Yes, Mum,” you said. “Yes, Mum,” Seungmin echoed.
You turned to glare at him. He smiled innocently. Your mother left the room shaking her head. Seungmin bumped his hip against yours as he turned the tap back on.
“Pass me the sponge.” “You pass me the sponge.” “It’s closer to you.” “You’re closer to the sink.”
He looked towards the doorway, then lowered his voice. “Do you think your sister would do it for me?” You stared at him. He managed to hold a serious expression for approximately two seconds.
Then you shoved the sponge directly into his chest.
౨ৎ
When you finally prepared to leave, your mother packed enough food for several days into a bag and made Seungmin promise to visit again soon. Your sister stood in the hallway while you put on your coat. “You’re leaving already?” she asked. “We’ve been here for five hours,” you said.
“It doesn’t feel that long.” Seungmin bent to tie his shoelace. Your sister’s gaze lingered on him. “You should come over more often.”
“We will,” you replied. “I meant Seungmin.” He looked up. Your sister smiled. “You don’t need to wait for her. You’re practically part of the family now.”
There it was. Not quite enough to confront. More than enough to notice. Seungmin straightened.
“I think she’d be upset if I visited without her.” “I wouldn’t,” you said. “I’d enjoy the peace.” He placed one hand on top of your head and pushed down lightly. Your sister laughed.
“You’re very patient with her.” Seungmin looked at you. “No,” he said. “She’s patient with me.” For once, there was no joke attached.
His hand slid from the top of your head to the back of your neck, thumb brushing softly beneath your hair. Your sister’s smile faded for half a second. Then it returned. “Well,” she said, opening the door, “it was lovely seeing you.”
“You too,” Seungmin replied politely. She hugged you first. It was brief. Then she turned towards Seungmin.
You expected her to offer a wave. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him. Seungmin froze. His hands hovered uncertainly beside her shoulders.
Your eyes widened. Over your sister’s head, his gaze found yours. His expression was so openly alarmed that a laugh burst out of you. Your sister released him.
“What’s funny?” “Nothing.” Seungmin stepped immediately towards you. You were still laughing as he took the bag of food from your hand and placed his other arm securely around your shoulders.
Your sister glanced between you. “Text me when you’re home.” “I will.” She looked at Seungmin. “You have my number, don’t you?”
“No,” he said. “Oh.” She paused. “I thought you did.” “Why would he?” you asked. “In case of an emergency.”
Seungmin nodded. “I’ll call emergency services.” You choked on another laugh. Your sister’s mouth tightened. “I only meant if something happened with you.”
“He has Mum’s number.” “And her Dad’s,” Seungmin added. “And Chan’s,” you said. “And Minho’s.”
“He doesn’t need your number.” Your sister folded her arms. “You make everything sound strange.” “You asked my boyfriend whether he had your number.”
“For emergencies.” “Right.” Seungmin gently steered you through the doorway before either of you could continue. “Thank you for lunch,” he called politely.
Your mother called goodbye from somewhere inside the house. Your sister remained at the door while the two of you walked down the path. You could feel her watching. Seungmin’s arm stayed around you until you reached the pavement.
Then he leaned close. “Don’t look now.” You immediately looked back. Your sister was still standing in the doorway.
She lifted her hand when she saw you turn. You waved. Seungmin sighed. “I specifically said not to.”
“I don’t take instructions well.” “I know.” The door finally closed. You walked several more steps in silence.
Then Seungmin said, “Your sister wants me.” You stopped. He stopped beside you. The solemn expression on his face lasted less than a second before you both started laughing.
“Your confidence is disgusting,” you told him.
౨ৎ
Your sister arrived at your flat on Saturday afternoon wearing heeled boots, a fitted coat and enough perfume to announce her presence before you had even opened the door. You looked at her. Then at the small handbag hanging from her shoulder. Then back at her.
“You said you were coming to borrow my straighteners.” “I am.” “Are you planning to straighten your hair here?” “No.”
“Then why do you look like you’re going somewhere?” She frowned. “I’m meeting someone later.” “You didn’t mention that.” “I didn’t realise I needed to submit an itinerary.”
“You don’t.” “Then why are you interrogating me?” “I asked one question.” “You asked three.”
You stepped aside to let her enter. She walked past you, removing her coat as she went. The outfit beneath it was somehow even more carefully chosen. You watched her smooth the fabric over her waist before checking her reflection in the hallway mirror.
Interesting. Very interesting. “You could have texted,” you said, closing the door. “I would’ve brought the straighteners to Mum’s tomorrow.” “I was nearby.”
She wasn’t. Your sister lived nearly forty minutes in the opposite direction. You decided not to point that out. From the living room, Seungmin called, “Who is it?”
Your sister’s posture changed almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders pulled back. Her expression softened. You stared at her.
She ignored you. “Your favourite person,” you called. There was a pause. Then Seungmin replied, “Felix?”
You gasped. Your sister laughed. You marched into the living room, already preparing several punishments. Seungmin was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table.
A pale blue fabric headband held his hair away from his face, and there was a thin layer of clay mask drying across his cheeks because you had told him his skin looked tired. He had complained for eleven minutes. Then he had asked whether there was enough left for his forehead. Your left hand rested carefully on top of an old magazine while Seungmin held your right between both of his.
Three of your fingernails were painted. One was half-painted. The fifth had somehow acquired a streak of polish across your skin. Seungmin looked up as you entered.
The smile on his face widened. “There’s my second-favourite person.” You stopped in front of him. “Second?”
“Felix bakes for me.” “I cook for you.” “You once burned instant noodles.” “The packet was confusing.”
“You forgot the water.” “It didn’t say when to add it.” You placed one foot against his thigh and pushed lightly. Seungmin caught your ankle.
“No kicking near the nail polish.” “You deserve worse.” “You asked me to do this.” “And you’re doing a terrible job.”
He looked down at your nails. “They’re beautiful.” “There’s polish on my knuckle.” Your sister appeared behind you.
Seungmin glanced towards her. His expression flickered with surprise before settling into a pleasant smile. “Oh. Hi.” “Hi.”
Your sister looked him over. Her gaze paused at the headband. Then the face mask. Then your hand resting in his.
Her smile faltered, only slightly. “I didn’t know you were here.” You turned your head towards her. She knew.
You had mentioned it the previous evening when she asked what you were doing this weekend. Seungmin did not appear to remember that. “I live here sometimes,” he said. “You don’t,” you replied.
Your sister moved further into the room. “You look comfortable,” she said. Seungmin touched the edge of the headband. “This was forced on me.”
“You asked whether the bow should go in the middle,” you said. Your sister laughed, lowering herself onto the sofa behind him. “It suits you.” Seungmin looked up at her.
“The face mask?” “The headband.” He touched it again. “Thanks.”
Her smile brightened. You watched her tuck one leg elegantly over the other. Seungmin returned his attention to your hand. “Stop moving.”
“I’m not moving.” “You’re moving now.” “Because you told me not to.” He tightened his fingers around yours.
“If you smudge this one, I’m starting again.” “You’ve already smudged it.” “That was intentional.” “Was the polish on my skin intentional too?”
“Yes.” “What was the artistic vision?” “Annoying you.” You tried to pull your hand away.
Seungmin held on. “Stay still.” “You’re enjoying the authority.” “I rarely have any in this relationship.”
“Because you can’t be trusted.” Your sister leaned forwards. “You let him paint your nails?” You looked at her.
“He volunteered.” “I was coerced,” Seungmin said. “You said you could do it better than me.” “I can.”
You lifted your hand. He immediately lowered it again before the wet polish could run. “That remains to be seen.” Your sister tilted her head.
“I’d never ask my boyfriend to do something like that.” You glanced at Seungmin. He glanced at you. There it was again.
That tiny shared pause when both of you noticed something and decided, without speaking, whether it was worth reacting to. You smiled. “Good thing he isn’t your boyfriend, then.” Your sister’s expression tightened.
Only for a second. Then she laughed. “I only mean I’d feel bad making him do something so feminine.” Seungmin inspected your thumbnail.
“You think painting nails is feminine?” “Usually.” “Then I’m doing a very poor job of it.” You snorted.
He blew gently across your nail. Your sister watched his lips purse. “It’s sweet,” she said. “I just wouldn’t have expected it from you.” “What did you expect?” Seungmin asked.
“I don’t know.” She did know. You could tell by the way she leaned towards him. “Something more masculine, I suppose.”
Seungmin looked down at himself. He was wearing grey jogging bottoms, an old sweatshirt and your fluffy skincare headband. “I’m devastated.” “You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.” She smiled as though he were deliberately teasing her. “You seem like someone who’d usually want a very feminine girlfriend.” Seungmin’s brush paused.
You looked at your sister. She was looking at him. Not you. He lifted his eyes slowly.
“I do.” Your sister’s smile widened. Then Seungmin returned his attention to your hand. “That’s why I’m dating her.”
You pressed your lips together. Your sister glanced at you. You smiled pleasantly. Seungmin dipped the brush into the polish.
“She isn’t exactly what most people would call feminine,” your sister said. You raised your eyebrows. Seungmin’s hand stopped again. Your sister gestured towards you.
You were wearing one of Seungmin’s old shirts, a pair of shorts and fluffy socks. Your hair was twisted into a loose knot that had begun collapsing an hour ago. There was a faint smudge of clay mask beside your jaw where you had attempted to kiss Seungmin before it dried. You looked extremely comfortable. That had apparently become a flaw.
“I’m not?” you asked. “I didn’t mean it badly.” “Of course not.” “You’ve never cared about being girly.”
“I’m getting my nails painted.” “By your boyfriend.” “Yes.” “So?”
“So that feels relevant.” Your sister rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. You’re not someone who gets dressed up around the house or worries about always looking attractive.” You looked down at yourself.
Then at Seungmin. His gaze had settled on your face. You recognised the slight narrowing of his eyes. Not anger.
Not yet. Attention. Your sister continued, “I just think it’s brave.” “Brave?” you repeated.
“To be that comfortable so early in a relationship.” You and Seungmin had been together for nearly two years. Apparently that remained early enough to maintain a constant state of glamour. “How does she normally dress at home?” Seungmin asked.
Your sister seemed pleased to have his attention again. “Like this.” “Right.” “She’s always been a little careless.”
“With clothes?” “With everything.” You laughed quietly. Your sister looked at you.
“What?” “Nothing.” Seungmin placed the nail brush carefully inside the bottle. Then he lifted your hand and examined his work.
“Perfect.” “It’s uneven.” “So are your fingers.” “My fingers aren’t uneven.”
“One’s shorter.” “They’re supposed to be different lengths.” “Convenient excuse.” He brought your hand towards his mouth.
You frowned. “What are you doing?” “Checking whether it’s dry.” “With your lips?”
“Yes.” “That makes no sense.” Seungmin pressed a delicate kiss to the side of your index finger, avoiding the wet nail. Then he kissed your knuckle.
Then your wrist. A smile pulled at your mouth despite yourself. “Dry,” he announced. “You didn’t touch the polish.”
“I’m an expert.” “You’re an idiot.” He kissed your wrist again. Your sister shifted on the sofa.
“You two are very…” She paused. “Affectionate.” “That sounded judgemental,” you said. “It wasn’t.” “It sounded a little judgemental,” Seungmin agreed.
“I only mean you don’t seem like the clingy type.” She was speaking to him again. Seungmin leaned back against your legs. “I’m not.”
You looked down at him. He looked up at you. “You’re currently using me as a chair.” “You’re comfortable.”
Seungmin smiled lazily, reaching behind himself until his hand found your knee. You threaded your fingers through his hair, careful not to disturb the headband. He immediately tilted his head into your touch. Your sister watched him do it.
Something in her expression hardened. “You always liked being fussed over,” she said to you. You looked at her. “What?”
“When we were younger. You always needed everyone’s attention.” The comment was casual. Almost playful. You knew better.
“I don’t remember that.” “You used to follow Mum around constantly.” “I was six.” “You cried whenever she left the room.”
“I was still six.” “You’ve never liked being alone.” Seungmin’s thumb stroked once over your knee. You shrugged.
“Good thing I don’t have to be.” Your sister’s eyes flicked towards his hand. “That’s what I mean. You need a lot from people.” There was a quietness beneath the words.
An implication she wanted Seungmin to catch. You were needy. Difficult. Exhausting.
The kind of girlfriend who demanded face masks and painted nails and constant affection. Your sister, naturally, would never require so much effort. Seungmin looked up at you. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” “Need a lot from me?” You pretended to consider it. “Well, you could make more tea.”
“I made the last one.” “You drank half of it.” “It became ours when you let me taste it.” “That’s not how sharing works.”
Your sister exhaled through her nose. “You make everything into a joke.” “You make everything very serious,” you replied. “I’m trying to have a conversation.”
“With my boyfriend?” “With both of you.” “You’ve mostly been looking at him.” The room went still.
Your sister blinked. Seungmin’s eyebrows lifted. You hadn’t intended to say it quite so plainly. You weren’t upset.
Not yet. You were mostly curious to see what she would do when someone acknowledged the obvious. She recovered quickly. “I’m looking at whoever’s speaking.”
“He hasn’t been speaking.” “He literally just was.” You smiled. “All right.”
Your sister folded her arms. “You’re being strange again.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You implied something.”
“What did I imply?” “You know exactly what.” Seungmin’s hand slid around the back of your knee. His fingertips squeezed gently.
You looked down at him. He gave you a small, private smile. There was no concern in it. He knew you weren’t jealous.
Mostly, he appeared entertained. “You came for straighteners,” you reminded your sister. “I know.” “They’re in the bedroom.”
“Can you get them?” “You know where they are.” She hesitated. Her gaze moved towards the hallway, then back to Seungmin.
“I haven’t been in your bedroom since you moved things around.” “You’ll survive.” “I don’t want to go through your things.” “You’ve never had an issue before.”
Her mouth tightened. You smiled sweetly. “I’ll show you.” You gently extracted your hand from Seungmin’s grasp, holding your fingers carefully apart.
He immediately caught your wrist. “Where are you going?” “To get the straighteners.” “You’ll ruin your nails.”
“I’m walking, not digging a tunnel.” “You’re very clumsy.” “You painted them five minutes ago. They’re dry.” Seungmin tightened his grip.
“Wait.” “What?” He reached for the bottle of top coat on the table. “You need this.”
“You didn’t mention top coat before.” “I forgot.” “You just don’t want me to leave.” “That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re holding my wrist.” “To protect my work.” “Say you’ll miss me.” “You’ll be gone for thirty seconds.”
“Then it shouldn’t be difficult.” Seungmin narrowed his eyes. Your sister watched the exchange. You waited.
He looked away first. “I’ll miss you,” he muttered. You grinned. “What was that?”
“You heard me.” “I don’t think I did.” “I’m not repeating it.” “Then I suppose I’ll have to stay.”
Seungmin looked back at you suspiciously. You lowered yourself onto the floor in front of him. His expression brightened. Then you reached for the top coat.
He held it out of reach. “You said you were staying.” “To do my own nails.” “No.”
“Give it to me.” “You’ll ruin them.” “They’re already ruined.” Seungmin gasped.
You grabbed for the bottle. He leaned away. You lunged across him, careful to keep your painted hand lifted. Seungmin caught you around the waist with his free arm.
“Behave.” “Give it.” “No.” “Seungmin.”
You tried to reach behind him. He shifted again, pulling you further into his lap. Your sister cleared her throat. You both looked towards her.
She was still sitting on the sofa. Watching. You had briefly forgotten she was there. “Sorry,” you said, although you weren’t particularly sorry.
Seungmin rested his chin on your shoulder. He still had one arm wrapped firmly around your waist. Your sister’s gaze dropped to it. “Could you get the straighteners?” she asked.
“You know where they are,” you repeated. “I already told you I don’t.” Seungmin lifted his head. “I can get them.”
Your sister’s face brightened. You turned towards him. He was already beginning to stand, carefully guiding you off his lap. Your sister rose too.
Seungmin paused. He looked at her. Then at you. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
There was no reason for both of them to go. Your sister apparently believed your bedroom contained an unusually complicated straightener-storage system that required Seungmin’s personal guidance. “I know where they are,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
“You can stay here.” Her smile faltered. “I don’t mind.” “I do.”
The answer was so immediate that you made a small choking sound. Your sister’s patience finally snapped. “Can someone please get them?” You and Seungmin both looked at her.
She smiled tightly. “The straighteners.” “Right,” you said. Seungmin pointed at you.
“Don’t touch anything.” “It’s my flat.” “My nail polish.” He disappeared down the hallway.
Your sister waited until he was out of earshot. Then she looked at you. “You don’t have to perform every time I’m here.” You stared at her.
“Perform?” “The constant touching. The little jokes.” “You think that’s for you?” “I think you’re trying very hard to prove something.”
You looked towards the hallway. Seungmin was rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, apparently having forgotten that you kept the straighteners inside your wardrobe. You turned back to her. “I’m sitting in my own living room wearing his shirt while he paints my nails.”
“Exactly.” “What am I proving?” “That you’re comfortable with him.” “I am comfortable with him.”
“You don’t need to make it so obvious.” A laugh escaped you. Your sister’s expression darkened. “What?”
“I genuinely don’t understand what you’re accusing me of.” “You’re acting territorial.” “I haven’t stopped you speaking to him.” “You don’t have to. You just keep interrupting.”
“This is my flat.” “So?” “He’s my boyfriend.” “I know that.”
“Do you?” Her eyes narrowed. You smiled. Still amused.
Mostly. But something sharper had begun pressing beneath your ribs. Your sister had always competed with you. Clothes. Friends. Attention. Compliments.
Anything you possessed became evidence that she deserved something better. You had simply never expected her to become this obvious. “You’re imagining things,” she said. “Am I?”
“Yes.” “Then why did you come dressed like that to borrow straighteners?” Her face changed. Only for an instant.
Then she scoffed. “I told you I’m going out.” “Where?” “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.” “You clearly do.” “You’ve travelled forty minutes to borrow something you could buy for twenty pounds.” “I was nearby.”
“No, you weren’t.” She folded her arms. “Seungmin doesn’t seem to mind me being here.” There it was.
You looked at her. She looked pleased with herself. “Why would he mind?” “He’s been friendly.”
“He’s usually friendly.” “Not with everyone.” You nearly smiled. Your sister had known Seungmin for one afternoon.
Apparently she had already developed an extensive understanding of his social habits. “He complimented me last time,” she continued. “When?” “He said my dress was nice.”
“Mum told him to.” “That doesn’t mean he didn’t think it.” “No, I’m sure he has very strong feelings about the dress.” “You don’t have to be jealous.”
You stared at her. Then you laughed. You couldn’t help it. The idea was so completely detached from reality that amusement overwhelmed everything else.
Your sister’s face hardened. “I’m serious.” “So am I.” “Then why are you laughing?”
“Because you think Seungmin complimenting your dress means I should be worried.” “I didn’t say you should be worried.” “You said I was jealous.” “You’re acting like it.”
“Trust me.” You leaned back against the sofa. “I’m not.” Your sister opened her mouth. Seungmin returned before she could answer. He was holding the straighteners in one hand
He handed the straighteners to your sister. She accepted them. “Thank you.” “No problem.”
Her fingers lingered against his for a moment. Seungmin looked down at their hands. Then politely extracted his own. “I should probably go,” your sister said.
You looked at the clock. She had been there for less than twenty minutes. “Your plans?” you asked. “Yes.”
She picked up her coat. Seungmin returned to the floor beside you, already reaching for your hand. Your sister watched him pull you down beside him. Your sister opened the front door.
“I’ll text you,” she said to you. “Okay.” She looked towards Seungmin. “It was nice seeing you.”
“You too.” “You look good, by the way.” Seungmin glanced down at his sweatshirt. “Thanks.”
“The headband especially.” His hand rose to the blue bow. “Right.” She laughed softly.
Then she left. You waited until the door closed. Silence settled over the flat. Seungmin stared at it.
You stared at him. He turned slowly. “What?” You broke first.
Laughter burst out of you so suddenly that you nearly knocked over the nail polish. Seungmin caught the bottle. “Careful!” “The headband especially,” you repeated.
“Stop.” “You look good, by the way.” “I said stop.” You twisted in his arms until you were facing him.
Seungmin was kneeling over you, one hand planted beside your shoulder and the other wrapped securely around your waist. You looked up at him. “I like your headband.” “Thank you. I already have a beautiful girlfriend.”
You nodded. “Very natural.” “You’re ridiculous.” “And you’re obsessed with me.”
“There it is.” “There what is?” “You’ve been waiting to say that all afternoon.” “I haven’t.”
“You have.” “No.” “Yes.” You tried to push him away with your forearm.
Seungmin remained exactly where he was. “Admit it,” he said. “Admit what?” “That you’re jealous.”
“I’m not.” “Just a little?” “No.” “Not even when she touched my hand?”
“I thought about breaking her fingers.” Seungmin’s eyes widened. You hooked one leg around his hips and attempted to roll him onto his back. He anticipated it, shifting his weight before you could gain any leverage.
“You’re cheating,” you complained. “How?” “You’re stronger.” “That isn’t cheating.”
“It is when I’m losing.” He laughed. You used the distraction to push at his shoulder again. Seungmin caught both your wrists.
Your breath hitched, more from surprise than anything else. He pinned them lightly above your head, careful not to let your nails touch the carpet. His hair had begun slipping free from the headband. The clay mask had cracked faintly near the corners of his smile.
He looked completely ridiculous. And unfairly lovely. “Still think I enjoyed it?” he asked. You pretended to consider your answer.
His eyes narrowed. “Choose carefully.” You bit back a smile. “She is very feminine.”
Seungmin lowered his face closer to yours. “Wrong direction.” “And confident.” His grip tightened slightly around your wrists.
You laughed. “And sophisticated.” “Do you want to keep your newly painted nails?” “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is.” “You worked so hard on them.” “I can start again.” “You wouldn’t.”
“I have nowhere to be.” You squirmed beneath him. He shifted, trapping you more securely without putting his weight on you. “You’re impossible,” you said.
“You started this.” “She’s your type.” Seungmin stared at you. Then he released one of your wrists.
You immediately tried to escape. His free hand found your side. You squealed. “No!”
“Take it back.” “You can’t keep doing this!” “I can until you learn.” His fingers dug gently into your waist.
You dissolved into laughter, twisting helplessly beneath him. “The mask!” you gasped. “You’ll crack the mask!” “I don’t care.” “You were worried about it two minutes ago!”
“You’ve pushed me too far.” You kicked at the rug. Seungmin caught your leg beneath his knee. “You’re evil!”
“And?” “Controlling!” “And?” “Obsessed with me!”
His fingers stopped. “There we go.” You glared up at him, breathless. “That isn’t fair.”
“It’s completely fair.” “I was supposed to say you don’t want her.” “I know I don’t want her.” “You’re supposed to reassure me.”
“Are you worried?” “No.” “Then why do you need reassurance?” “Because I enjoy compliments.”
Seungmin smiled. The teasing faded gently from his expression. He released your other wrist and settled his hand beside your head instead. “You’re very pretty.”
“That was basic.” “You’re especially pretty when you’re wearing my clothes.” “Better.” “You’re funny.”
“I know.” “And irritating.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” “It’s one of my favourite things about you.”
You looked up at him. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek. “You’re my favourite person to come home to,” he continued. “My favourite person to annoy. My favourite person to do absolutely nothing with.” Your smile softened.
Seungmin’s did too. “And,” he added, “I’m so obsessed with you that I let you put this stupid thing on my head.” You touched the bow. “You love the headband.”
“I tolerate it.” “You’re avoiding the important part.” “What important part?” “The part where you admit I’m obsessed with you.”
You laughed. “You just admitted it yourself.” “I want to hear you say it.” “You’re obsessed with me.”
“And?” You stared at him. He waited expectantly. “And you don’t want my sister.”
“Obviously.” “And?” A slow grin spread across his face. You realised what he wanted.
“No.” “Say it.” “I’m not saying it.” “You know you want to.”
“I don’t.” Seungmin’s fingers hovered threateningly near your waist. You recoiled. “Don’t.”
“Then say it.” “You’re abusing your power.” “I’m waiting.” You glared at him.
He looked delighted. “And I’m obsessed with you too,” you muttered. “What was that?” “You heard me.”
“The face mask is restricting my hearing.” “That isn’t how masks work.” “Speak clearly.” You tried not to smile.
“I’m obsessed with you too.” “There we go.” He bent and kissed you. It began soft.
A pleased little press of his lips against yours. Then you reached for the back of his neck and accidentally brushed one wet nail against his cheek. Seungmin pulled away. You froze.
A bright streak of polish now cut through the dried clay mask. For one second, neither of you moved. Then you burst out laughing. Seungmin stared at you.
“You ruined it.” “I’m sorry!” “You did that on purpose.” “I didn’t!”
“You attacked me.” “You were on top of me!” “Because you accused me of wanting your sister.” Seungmin touched his cheek.
His fingers came away with polish on them. His mouth dropped open. You laughed even harder. “You look beautiful.”
“You’re sleeping on the sofa.” “It’s my flat.” “Then I’m sleeping in your bed alone.” “You wouldn’t last ten minutes.”
“I’d sleep perfectly.” You grinned. Seungmin tried to maintain his glare. He failed.
A laugh escaped him. Then another. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your shoulder, both of you shaking with laughter on the living-room floor. You wrapped your arms around him.
“Your mask really is ruined.” “I know.” “And the polish is definitely smudged.” “I know.”
౨ৎ
Your sister invited herself shopping with you three days later. Technically, she asked whether you had bought your mum’s birthday present yet. When you told her that you and Seungmin were going into town on Sunday to find something, she replied that she had been planning to go that day too. You had stared at the message for several seconds. Seungmin, lying beside you with his head on your stomach, had tilted his phone away from his face and asked, “Why are you making that expression?”
“My sister wants to come shopping with us.” He had gone silent. You lowered your phone to look at him. “That was a very long pause.” “I was trying to think of something polite.”
“And?” “I couldn’t.” You laughed and ran your fingers through his hair. “We are shopping for her mum too.” “Unfortunately.”
“She’s my mum.” “That’s why I said unfortunately. I like your mum.” “You’re horrible.” Seungmin had turned his head and pressed a kiss to your stomach through your shirt. “Tell her she can come.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” “I’m thrilled. Maybe she can tell me more about what kind of woman I usually prefer.” You had flicked his forehead. He had bitten your finger.
The matter was settled.
౨ৎ
Your sister arrived twenty minutes late. You and Seungmin had already been standing outside the shopping centre long enough for him to complain about the cold four times, steal one of your gloves and attempt to warm his other hand by shoving it beneath the back of your jumper. You had slapped him away. He had waited thirty seconds before trying again.
“Your hand is freezing,” you complained, twisting out of his reach. “That’s why I need your body heat.” “You have pockets.” “They’re not as warm as you.”
“They don’t want you touching them either.” Seungmin smiled and caught the belt loop of your jeans when you tried to step away. “Come back.” “No.” “You’re abandoning me.”
“I’m moving half a metre.” “That’s still too far.” You rolled your eyes, but you let him pull you backwards until your shoulder rested against his chest. He wrapped both arms around your waist and tucked his chin over your shoulder, immediately pleased with himself. “You’re very clingy today,” you said.
“It’s cold.” “You were clingy yesterday too.” “I was tired.” “You fell asleep on top of me. I couldn’t breathe.”
“And yet you let me stay.” His laugh warmed the side of your neck. Your sister found you like that. She slowed as she approached, taking in Seungmin’s arms around your middle and the way your hands rested over his. Then she smiled.
“Sorry,” she said, although she did not sound particularly sorry. “The train was delayed.” “You said you were driving,” you replied. She paused. Seungmin’s face disappeared briefly against your shoulder. You felt the silent shake of his laughter.
“I changed my mind,” your sister said. “Clearly.” She looked at Seungmin. “Have you been waiting long?” “Long enough for her to attack me.”
“I moved your freezing hand away,” you said. Seungmin tightened his arms around your waist. “Exactly.” Your sister laughed, her gaze lingering on him a little too long. “You poor thing.” Your sister looked at you with a small, knowing smile. “You’ve always been like that.”
“Like what?” “Rough.” Seungmin’s eyebrows rose. You looked down at your outfit as though you might find evidence of roughness on your coat. “I pushed his hand away.”
“I’m only joking.” “Right.” “She’s very frightening,” Seungmin said solemnly. “I live in constant fear.” Then he kissed your cheek and released you, taking your hand instead. “Can we go inside before I lose feeling in my fingers?”
“You stole my glove.” “It wasn’t enough.” Your sister walked beside him as you entered the shopping centre. You ended up on his other side.
It was not immediately strange. The pavement narrowed near the doors, people moved around you, and your sister had always been skilled at placing herself exactly where she wanted to be without appearing deliberate. But once you were inside, she remained there. She asked Seungmin what he thought you should buy. She asked whether he enjoyed shopping. She asked which shops he liked, whether he cared about clothes and whether he usually chose his own outfits. He answered politely.
Mostly. When she asked whether he had a favourite designer, he said, “Whoever makes comfortable trousers.” When she asked what colours he liked on women, he said, “Normal ones.” Your sister frowned. “I was asking a normal question.”
“I know,” you said. “His answer was stupid.” Seungmin swung your joined hands between you. Your sister glanced down. “I think you’d suit darker colours,” she told him.
“I wear dark colours.” “I know. They make you look more mature.” You looked across him. “What does he look like now?” She ignored you. “You have a very classic face.”
Seungmin turned towards you. “Do I?” “No.” He looked offended. “You didn’t even think about it.” “I look at your face every day.”
“And you’ve never thought it was classic?” “I’ve thought it was annoying.” “That isn’t a facial structure.” “It should be.”
Your sister sighed softly. “You never take compliments seriously.” “She rarely gives them,” Seungmin said. “I complimented you this morning.” “You said my hair looked less strange than usual.”
“That was generous.” “You also said I looked tired.” “You did.” “You make me feel very cherished.”
You stopped in the middle of the walkway and placed both hands around his face. “You are beautiful.” Seungmin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re mocking me.” “Never.” “You’re smiling.”
“Because you’re beautiful.” He stared at you for another second before his mouth betrayed him. A reluctant smile appeared. “There,” you said, squeezing his cheeks. “Pretty.”
Seungmin caught both your wrists and pulled your hands away. “Don’t touch my face in public.” “You love it.” Your sister had gone quiet. You released Seungmin’s face and started walking again. He slipped his hand into yours as though the interruption had never happened.
The first shop was useless. The second was worse. Your mum had said she wanted something for the house, which sounded simple until you were faced with fifteen aisles of objects she might already own. Your sister suggested a decorative vase.
You reminded her that your mum had six. Seungmin picked up a tiny ceramic dog wearing a crown. You told him to put it down. “She’d love him,” he said.
“She’d ask why we bought her rubbish.” “He’s cute.” “He’s ugly.” “He can hear you.”
Your sister smiled at Seungmin. “I think he’s cute.” You looked at her. She was not looking at the ceramic dog. Seungmin, apparently unaware or pretending to be, placed the ornament carefully in your hands. “Hold him.”
“No.” “He likes you.” “You like him.” “He reminds me of you.”
You stared at the dog. The dog stared back with badly painted eyes. “You’re sleeping alone tonight.” Seungmin smiled. “You say that every week.”
“One day I’ll mean it.” “No, you won’t.” Your sister picked up a sleek glass vase and held it towards Seungmin. “What about this?” He glanced at it. “It’s nice.”
“She already has something similar,” you said. Your sister’s smile tightened. “Not exactly like this.” “It’s almost identical.” “It’s more modern.”
“Mum doesn’t care about modern.” “She might.” Your sister looked at Seungmin. “What do you think?” He looked between you both.
Then at the vase. Then at the ceramic dog still in your hands. “I think we should buy the dog.” You laughed.
Your sister did not. “You’re both impossible,” she said, returning the vase to the shelf. “That keeps coming up,” Seungmin replied. You carried the dog for another two aisles before secretly placing it on a display of cushions.
Seungmin noticed immediately. “Where is he?” “Who?” “The dog.”
“I don’t know.” “You abandoned him.” “He wasn’t ours.” “He could have been.”
“Not everything you like has to come home with us.” “You came home with me.” Your sister laughed. You turned towards Seungmin slowly. “Was that meant to be sweet?”
“Yes.” “It sounded like you found me beside a road.” “I rescued you.” “From what?”
“Yourself.” You shoved him lightly towards a stack of towels. He caught your elbow and pulled you with him, making you stumble against his chest. His free arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall. You tried not to smile.
You failed. Your sister walked ahead.
౨ৎ
After nearly an hour, you found a set of handmade serving bowls that your mum would genuinely like. Your sister thought they were plain. Seungmin thought one of them looked like a hat. You thought both of them needed to stop talking.
You were waiting at the till when your sister announced that she wanted coffee. “There’s a place downstairs,” she said. “I’ll go.” “I’ll come,” you replied. “I need the toilet anyway.” Her expression flickered.
Only slightly. Then she smiled. “You can stay with the bags. Seungmin and I can get them.” Seungmin looked up from the receipt in his hand. You looked at her.
She looked at him. There was a small silence. Then Seungmin said, “She knows my order.” Your sister recovered quickly. “You can tell me.”
“I’ll forget something.” “It’s coffee.” “He’s very demanding,” you said. Seungmin nodded.
Your sister laughed, although her eyes stayed on him. “I think I can manage.” You could have refused. Part of you wanted to, not because you thought anything would happen, but because your sister’s intentions had become so transparent that allowing her to proceed felt almost embarrassing. Then curiosity won.
You handed the shopping bag to Seungmin. “Fine. Get me something sweet.” “What?” “Surprise me.” “That always ends badly.”
“Only because you make poor choices.” Seungmin stared at you. You smiled. He sighed. “Fine.”
Your sister looked pleased. Far too pleased. You kissed Seungmin’s cheek before stepping away. “Don’t let her buy me anything with coconut.”
౨ৎ
Seungmin watched you disappear into the crowd. He knew exactly what you were doing. You had kissed him in front of your sister on purpose. Not because you were worried.
Because you were a menace. A message appeared on his phone before he and your sister had reached the escalator. Don’t fall in love while I’m gone x He smiled despite himself.
Your sister noticed. “What?” “Nothing.” “Was that her?”
“Yes.” “What did she say?” Seungmin put his phone away. “Nothing important.” Your sister stepped onto the escalator beside him.
For several seconds, she was silent. Then she said, “She checks on you a lot.” Seungmin looked at her. “Does she?” “She’s always texting you.”
“We text each other.” “I know. I just mean she likes knowing where you are.” He considered the comment. “She sent me a joke.”
“What joke?” “One you wouldn’t find funny.” Your sister’s mouth tightened. “You don’t know that.” “I know her sense of humour.”
“And mine?” “Not really.” The escalator carried them down another floor. Your sister rested one hand on the rail. “You and her are very different.”
Seungmin looked ahead. “You’ve mentioned that.” “I don’t mean it as an insult.” “You keep saying that too.” She laughed softly. “You remember.”
“I have a good memory.” “You do seem observant.” “Sometimes.” “That’s why I’m surprised.”
He turned his head. “By what?” She looked briefly uncertain, as if she had expected him to understand without making her say it aloud. “Nothing.”
Seungmin faced forwards again. The coffee shop was busy. A line curled away from the counter, giving your sister more time than she probably needed. She moved closer to him as they joined it. “I’ve always wondered how she ended up with someone like you.”
Seungmin’s expression did not change. “Someone like me?” “Successful. Disciplined. Mature.” “You think she isn’t those things?”
“I didn’t say that.” “You implied it.” Your sister sighed. “You’re very defensive of her.” “She’s my girlfriend.”
“I know.” “Then why are you surprised?” “I’m not surprised. I just think you misunderstand me.” Seungmin shoved one hand into his coat pocket. “Then explain.”
Your sister glanced towards the counter. The line had barely moved. “She’s always been the sweet one,” she said. “The one people feel protective over. I’ve always been more independent.” “Okay.” “She needs more reassurance.”
“Does she?” “You’ve seen how she is.” “I have.” “And that doesn’t get tiring?”
Seungmin looked at her properly. His tone stayed light, but his eyes sharpened. “No.” Your sister held his gaze. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” “I’m not.”
“She can be a lot.” “So can I.” “You’re different.” “You don’t know me.”
The words landed more firmly than anything he had said before. Your sister blinked. Seungmin looked back towards the counter. The line moved forward.
For a few seconds, she said nothing. Then she tried again. “She doesn’t tell people this, but she used to get overlooked a lot when we were younger.” Seungmin’s jaw tightened.
“Overlooked by who?” “People.” Your sister exhaled, clearly frustrated by his refusal to fill in the gaps for her. “Boys usually noticed me first.”
Seungmin waited. She smiled faintly. “She never minded. At least, she pretended not to.” He looked at her. “And?”
“And nothing. I’m only saying it’s probably nice for her to be the one someone chose for once.” Seungmin stared at her for a long moment. Your sister interpreted the silence as an opening. “You’re kind,” she continued. “You probably don’t even realise how much that means to her.”
“I noticed her.” The sentence was quiet. Immediate. Your sister’s smile faltered.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” “You said people didn’t.” “I said they usually noticed me first.” “I didn’t.”
Something sharp passed across her face. Then she laughed. “You hadn’t met me.” Seungmin looked at her.
The confidence in her smile returned. It was not difficult to understand what she meant. If he had seen her first, things might have been different. If he knew her better, he might recognise what he had missed.
If you had not reached him before she did, perhaps he would have made the correct choice. Seungmin almost laughed. Instead, he said, “I’ve met you now.” Your sister’s smile remained fixed.
The line moved again. She stepped closer. “I think we have more in common than you realise.” “Do we?”
“We’re both ambitious.” “So is she.” “We care about how we present ourselves.” “She does too.”
“She doesn’t care what anyone thinks.” “That’s one of the things I like about her.” Your sister’s eyes narrowed. “You turn everything into a compliment about her.” “Yes.”
The answer was so simple that it left nowhere for the conversation to go. Your sister looked away. Seungmin’s phone buzzed again. He checked it.
Is she seducing you yet? A second message appeared. Blink twice if you need rescue Then:
Actually don’t. I can’t see you He laughed under his breath. Your sister glanced towards the phone. “She’s checking again?”
“She’s entertaining herself.” “She doesn’t trust me.” Seungmin looked up. “Should she?” Your sister went still.
He raised his eyebrows slightly. For the first time, she seemed uncertain whether he was joking. Then he smiled. Not warmly.
Not cruelly either. Just enough to make the question impossible to challenge. Your sister looked towards the menu. “What did she want?”
“Something sweet.” “That isn’t very specific.” “She likes trying new things.” “I know.”
“Do you?” Your sister frowned. “She’s my sister.” Seungmin slipped his phone into his pocket. “Then choose.” She looked at the display board.
After a moment, she suggested a coconut latte. Seungmin stared at her. “What?” “She hates coconut.”
Your sister hesitated. “Does she?” “She told you five minutes ago.” “I forgot.” “I didn’t.”
He ordered your favourite instead.
౨ৎ
You returned to find them sitting at a small table near the window. Your sister was speaking. Seungmin was looking at his phone. That alone told you almost everything you needed to know.
He was never rude enough to ignore someone without a reason. When he spotted you, his entire expression changed. His shoulders relaxed. His mouth curved into a smile. He put his phone down and lifted one hand towards you. “There you are.”
You slid into the seat beside him. Seungmin immediately hooked his fingers through the belt loop at the back of your jeans and tugged you closer. “I was gone for fifteen minutes.” “It was difficult.”
“You seemed fine.” Your sister looked between you. You picked up the drink in front of your seat and inspected it. “What did you get me?” “Try it.”
“What is it?” “I’m not telling you.” “Why?” “You said to surprise you.”
“I don’t trust you.” Seungmin pushed the cup closer. “Drink.” You took a cautious sip. It was sweet, creamy and familiar.
Your favourite. You looked at him. He smiled smugly. “You didn’t choose something new.”
“I chose something you’d like.” “That isn’t a surprise.” “You were surprised.” “I was surprised you made a good decision.”
Seungmin leaned towards you. “Say thank you.” “No.” “Say it.” “You’re very demanding.”
“I carried the bowls.” “They’re in one bag.” “A heavy bag.” “They’re ceramic, not concrete.”
Your sister interrupted. “He remembered your order.” You looked at her. There was something brittle in her voice. Seungmin rested his chin briefly on your shoulder and stole a sip of your drink.
You pushed his face away. “Of course he did,” you said. “He orders it more than I do.” “For you,” he corrected. “You steal half.”
“It tastes better when it’s yours.” “That’s because you’re a thief.” He smiled against your cheek. Your sister looked away.
You could practically feel the conversation you had interrupted sitting between them. You waited until Seungmin sat back. Then you asked, “Did you have a nice chat?” Your sister reached for her coffee.
Seungmin looked at you. His eyes were bright with the effort of not laughing. “Very informative.” “Oh?”
“I learned that I’m successful, disciplined and mature.” You nodded solemnly. “One out of three isn’t bad.” Seungmin kicked your foot beneath the table. You kicked him back.
Your sister sighed. “I was complimenting him.” “I know.” “She thinks I’m mature,” Seungmin said. “She doesn’t live with you.”
“I don’t live with you.” Under the table, Seungmin’s knee pressed against yours. You tapped it once with your own. He tapped back.
Your sister watched the movement. “I was only saying that you’re lucky,” she said. You looked at her. “Again?” “You are.”
“I know.” “She thinks you’re lucky someone finally noticed you,” Seungmin added. The words were delivered with deceptive casualness. Your sister’s head snapped towards him.
Your hand stilled around the cup. Seungmin lifted his drink. You looked at your sister. She looked suddenly furious.
“I didn’t say it like that.” “How did you say it?” “I said people usually noticed me first when we were younger.” You raised your eyebrows.
Your sister leaned back. “It was relevant to the conversation.” “What conversation?” “We were talking about relationships.” “You were talking about mine?”
“She asked whether dating you was tiring,” Seungmin said. You stared at him. He took a calm sip. Your sister’s face reddened. “That isn’t what I asked.”
“It was very close.” “You’re twisting my words.” “I remember them quite clearly.” You looked between them.
The ridiculousness of it arrived before the hurt could. Your sister had finally managed to get Seungmin alone, and she had apparently used the opportunity to explain why being with you must be exhausting. A laugh slipped out. Your sister’s mouth tightened. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because you had fifteen minutes.” “What?” “You finally got him alone and that was your strategy?” Seungmin choked on his drink.
Your sister stared at you. You turned towards him. “Are you all right?” He held up one hand and coughed into the other. “You’re horrible,” he managed.
“You were thinking it too.” “I was trying to be polite.” Your sister placed her cup on the table more firmly than necessary. “Nothing happened.” You looked at her. “I know.”
“Then stop acting like you caught me doing something.” “I didn’t catch you. He told me.” Your sister stood. The legs of her chair scraped against the floor.
“I’m going to look at another shop.” You glanced at the untouched coffee. “We just sat down.” “I remembered something I need.” She grabbed her handbag.
Seungmin watched her. Your sister looked at him, waiting for something. An offer to come with her, perhaps. An apology.
A private look that confirmed all the things she had decided existed between them. Seungmin lifted his hand. For one hopeful second, she smiled. Then he pointed towards her cup. “Are you taking that?”
Her smile disappeared. “No.” “Can I have it?” You elbowed him.
“What?” he asked. “She isn’t drinking it.” Your sister walked away without answering. You watched her disappear into the crowd. Then you turned slowly towards Seungmin.
He was already reaching for her abandoned coffee. You slapped his hand. “No.” “She said she didn’t want it.”
“You don’t know what’s in it.” “Coffee.” “She might have poisoned it.” “Why would she poison her own drink?”
“She sensed rejection.” Seungmin laughed. You folded your arms. “What did she actually say?” He gave up on the coffee and leaned back in his chair.
“Exactly what I told you.” “She asked whether I was tiring?” “She implied that you need constant reassurance, said you’re a lot and suggested I probably chose you because I’m kind.” Your amusement faded a little.
Seungmin noticed immediately. His foot slid beside yours under the table. “She also told me men usually noticed her first,” he added. You looked at the crowd beyond the window. “She loves saying that.”
“I asked which men.” That made you smile. Seungmin’s knee pressed more firmly against yours. “She couldn’t name them.”
“You interrogated her?” “I asked good questions.” “You never ask good questions.” “That’s unfair.”
You looked back at him. He was watching you closely. Not pushing. Just waiting.
“What else?” you asked. Seungmin hesitated. “She implied I might have chosen differently if I’d met her first.” A strange little ache settled beneath your ribs. Not because you believed it.
The idea of Seungmin choosing your sister felt almost comical. But because she believed your entire relationship could be reduced to timing. That you had simply arrived first and seized something that should have belonged to her. You looked down at your cup. “And what did you say?”
“That I’ve met her now.” Your mouth twitched. “That’s all?” “I thought it was enough.”
“It is.” “She didn’t like it.” “I’m devastated for her.” “I also told her I noticed you.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the cup. Seungmin’s expression softened. “What?” “Nothing.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I noticed you.” You fought a smile. You covered his mouth with your hand. Seungmin kissed your palm.
You pulled it away immediately. “That’s disgusting.” “You liked that too.” “You’re so pleased with yourself.”
“I handled a difficult social situation and bought you the correct drink.” “You want a medal?” “A kiss would be appropriate.” “You’re asking for payment?”
“I did hard labour.” “You stood in a coffee queue.” “With your sister.” You considered that.
Seungmin lifted his eyebrows. You leaned over and kissed his cheek. He turned his head at the last second, catching the corner of your mouth instead. You pulled back.
“That was cheating.” “You’re slow.” “You tricked me.” “You still kissed me.”
“Barely.” “You can try again.” “I’m not rewarding bad behaviour.” Seungmin rested one elbow on the table. “Then I’ll have to live with the memory.”
“You’re dramatic.” “I suffered for fifteen minutes.” “You were texting me.” “That was my lifeline.”
You laughed and nudged his foot beneath the table. Seungmin caught your ankle between his. “You know she’s going to tell herself you only rejected her because you knew I was coming back.” Seungmin’s expression became thoughtful. “Do you want me to say it more directly?”
You looked towards the direction your sister had disappeared. Part of you wanted him to. Part of you knew she would turn even that into evidence of something else. “She hasn’t actually admitted she wants you,” you said.
“She invited herself on our date.” “We’re buying Mum bowls.” “A highly romantic date.” Seungmin reached for your hand across the table.
His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. “If she says something properly,” he said, “I’ll answer properly.” “You have answered.” “I mean without being polite.”
“That sounds frightening.” Seungmin squeezed your hand. “Tell her that when she tries again.” You looked at him. “When?”
He smiled. “You think she’s stopping?” You glanced once more towards the crowd. “No.”
“Neither do I.” There was a pause. Then Seungmin brightened. “Can we go back for the dog?” “No.”
“He could be part of your mum’s present.” “She would hate him.” “She’d learn to love him.” “You only knew him for ten minutes.”
“That was enough.” Seungmin smiled and lifted your hand to his mouth. This time, he kissed your knuckles slowly. You let him.
Your sister returned ten minutes later carrying nothing. Neither of you mentioned it. Seungmin did, however, remain close to you for the rest of the afternoon. His hand at your waist when people passed too close. His fingers laced through yours on the escalator. His chin briefly resting on your shoulder while you examined candles. His mouth near your ear when he whispered that one of them smelled like “an expensive wardrobe”.
Your sister tried to walk beside him. Seungmin kept drifting back towards you. She asked his opinion. He asked yours.
She suggested shops. He followed wherever you went. By the time you left the shopping centre, your sister had stopped speaking unless someone addressed her directly. The three of you stood near the station while she checked the time.
“My train’s in five minutes,” she said. Your sister adjusted her handbag and looked at Seungmin. “It was nice spending time with you.” “You too.” “We should do it again.”
You looked at him. He looked at you. Your sister noticed. “Without making it into a whole family thing,” she added.
You raised your eyebrows. Seungmin slipped his arm around your shoulders. “I think she comes with me.” Your sister laughed. “You’re allowed separate friends.” “I have friends.”
“She means her,” you said. “I know.” Your sister’s cheeks coloured. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?” Seungmin asked. She looked at him. He waited. His expression was pleasant.
Curious. Entirely unwilling to rescue her. Your sister’s train arrived with a rush of noise behind her. She glanced towards the platform.
“I have to go.” “You should hurry,” you said. She hugged you briefly. When she turned towards Seungmin, he lifted the shopping bag between them.
Your sister stopped. He smiled politely. “Bye.” For a moment, she looked as though she might push around the bag and hug him anyway.
Then she stepped back. “Bye.” You watched her hurry towards the train. As soon as she was out of earshot, Seungmin lowered the bag.
“You used Mum’s bowls as a shield,” you said. “I panicked.” “You’re very brave.” “She hugged me last time.”
“Terrifying.” “I didn’t know what else to do.” “You could have hugged her.” Seungmin looked horrified. “Why would I do that?”
“She’s confident and sophisticated.” “Stop.” “More your type.” He pointed at you. “We discussed this.”
“She only needs an opportunity.” “You’re becoming annoying.” “Becoming?” “More annoying.”
You smiled. Seungmin stared at you for a second. Then he hooked one arm around your waist and lifted you just enough that your shoes left the ground. You yelped.
“Put me down!” “Take it back.” “We’re in public!” “I don’t care.”
You grabbed his shoulders, laughing as he carried you several steps away from the platform. Seungmin lowered you carefully to the ground. His smile softened. Seungmin took your hand again, swinging it once between you before pulling you towards the station exit.
“Come on,” he said. “We have to go back.” “For what?” “The dog.” “We are not buying the dog.”
“He’s waiting for us.” “He’s ceramic.” “He’ll think we abandoned him.” “You said I was the abandoned animal.”
“I can rescue both of you.” “You already complain that I take up too much space.” “He’s small.” “I hate you.”
Seungmin kissed the side of your head. He smiled and kept walking. You followed, because the station exit was in the same direction as the shop. Not because you had agreed to buy the dog.
Definitely not. When your mum opened her birthday present a week later, she found a beautiful set of handmade serving bowls. And, tucked between them, a tiny ceramic dog wearing a crown. She stared at it.
You stared at Seungmin. Seungmin looked unbearably pleased.
౨ৎ
By the time you finished getting ready, Seungmin had changed his shirt twice, complained about both options and somehow blamed you for the fact that neither looked right. “You said the black one was nice,” he reminded you from the bedroom doorway. “It was nice.” “And then you told me to wear the blue one.”
“Because the blue one is nicer.” “So the black one was ugly.” “That isn’t what I said.” “It’s what you implied.”
You turned away from the mirror and looked at him. He stood with both shirts hanging from one hand, his hair still slightly damp from the shower and an expression of genuine betrayal on his face. “You’re having a crisis over two nearly identical shirts.” “They aren’t nearly identical.” “One is black and one is very dark blue.”
“Exactly.” You stared at him. Seungmin stared back. Then his gaze drifted slowly down your body.
The offence disappeared from his expression. You had chosen an outfit that made you feel good. You suspected you would regret that decision later, but Seungmin’s reaction made it worth it. He looked at you for long enough that you lifted an eyebrow. “What?” “Nothing.”
You tried not to smile. “Have you not seen me before?” “Not in that.” “You watched me put it on.” “I was distracted.”
“By what?” “The shirt crisis.” You laughed and turned back towards the mirror. Seungmin abandoned both shirts on the bed and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. “You look pretty,” he murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Only pretty?” His eyes narrowed at your reflection. “Don’t become demanding.” “You stared at me for thirty seconds. I expected something better.” “You look very pretty.”
“That’s the same thing with an extra word.” “You look so pretty that I’m reconsidering letting you leave the flat.” You smiled. “Better.” “I knew you were fishing.”
“I enjoy compliments.” “I know.” Seungmin kissed the side of your neck, then another spot slightly lower. You tilted your head instinctively before remembering you had spent far too long getting ready. “Don’t ruin my makeup.”
“I’m nowhere near your makeup.” “You’ll work your way up.” “That sounds like encouragement.” You caught his wrists and pulled his arms away. Seungmin resisted just enough to make it difficult, then released you with an exaggerated sigh.
“You don’t love me anymore.” “I’m trying to get us to the party.” “Chan said eight.” “It’s quarter past.”
“Exactly. We’re early.” You looked at him through the mirror. “For what?” “A party.” “That started fifteen minutes ago.”
“Social events have a grace period.” “You invented that because you’re never ready on time.” “I was ready.” “You aren’t wearing a shirt.”
Seungmin looked down at his bare chest, then at the two shirts abandoned on the bed. Your phone buzzed on the dressing table. You picked it up. Your sister had messaged.
Are you there yet? A second message followed before you could reply. Is Seungmin going straight from yours? You turned the screen towards him.
Seungmin read both messages. His face remained blank for one beat, then he placed his chin back on your shoulder. “She misses me.” “She saw you last week.” “A long separation.”
“She didn’t ask whether I was going straight from mine.” “She knows you’ll be there.” “She also knows you’ll be there.” “That must be why she asked to come.”
You laughed and nudged him backwards with your hip. “Put the blue shirt on.” “The black one makes my shoulders look better.” “Then wear the black one.” “You said the blue was nicer.”
“Seungmin.” He smiled and kissed your cheek before finally retrieving the blue shirt. You replied to your sister while he dressed. We’re leaving soon. Bring the drinks you promised Chan.
Her response came almost immediately. What’s Seungmin wearing? You looked up. He was buttoning the blue shirt.
You considered sending her a photograph of the black one lying empty on the bed. Instead, you typed: Clothes x Seungmin glanced over. “What did you say?”
“Nothing important.” “You’re smiling.” “I’m entertaining myself.” “Is she seducing me remotely now?”
“Apparently she needs to prepare.” “For what?” “To be more your type.” Seungmin finished the final button and walked towards you. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“It’s funny.” “Until she touches my arm fifteen times.” “Maybe she thinks that’s where your romantic feelings are stored.” “That would explain why I keep trying to get away.”
You laughed, and Seungmin’s smile softened. He reached out to fix the chain of your necklace where it had twisted, his fingers careful against the back of your neck. “Tell me if it stops being funny,” he said. The words were quiet enough to change the air between you. You turned.
Seungmin let his hands settle at your waist. “I will.” “Promise?” “You already made me promise.”
“I’m making you do it again.” “Very controlling.” “Very caring.” “Debatable.”
He squeezed your waist. “Promise.” You rested both hands against his chest. “I promise.” Satisfied, Seungmin kissed your forehead. Then he leant back and examined his shirt in the mirror. “Do my shoulders look strange?”
You pushed him towards the door.
౨ৎ
The party remained civilised for approximately forty minutes. Then Changbin brought out the shot glasses. Chan saw them from across the room and immediately shook his head. “Take it easy” “You bought the alcohol,” Changbin reminded him.
Jisung appeared beside the kitchen counter as though summoned by the word drinking. “Shots are normal.” “You said that last time and threw up in my shoes.” “That was unrelated.” “It was directly related.”
Felix slid into the space beside Jisung and began examining the bottles. You followed closely behind him, your own drink already mostly gone. Seungmin caught your wrist before you could reach for anything. “You’re not doing shots.” You looked at his hand around your wrist, then at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve already had three drinks.” “So have you.” “I can still walk in a straight line.” “I can walk in a straight line.”
Seungmin released you and pointed towards the hallway. You stared at him. He lifted his eyebrows. “You want me to demonstrate?”
“Yes.” You placed your empty glass on the counter and turned towards the hallway with as much dignity as you could manage. Felix and Jisung watched in complete silence. You took three perfectly respectable steps.
Then your hip struck the edge of the sofa. You stopped. Seungmin smiled. “The sofa moved.”
“It’s been there all night.” “It knew I was trying to prove something.” Jisung nodded seriously. “Furniture can sense weakness.” Minho, sitting nearby with his ankle resting over one knee, looked at him. “That explains why you keep walking into doors.”
Jisung placed a hand over his chest. “Why are you attacking me?” “Because you make it easy.” Jisung abandoned the counter and dropped onto the sofa beside him. Within seconds, his legs were stretched across Minho’s lap. Minho glanced down but made no effort to move them.
You pointed towards them. “He can’t walk straight either.” “He’s sitting,” Seungmin said. “He was walking badly earlier.” Changbin began pouring.
Hyunjin took the bottle from Changbin before he could overfill the glasses. “At least make them even. You’re pouring like you’ve never seen liquid before.” “I’m being generous.” “You’re trying to kill Jisung.” Jisung lifted his head from Minho’s shoulder. “Yes please.”
Minho pressed one hand against his forehead and pushed him back down. “You accept nothing.” You managed to claim a glass before Seungmin could stop you. Felix took one. Jisung reached for another, but Minho lifted it out of reach.
Jisung stared at him. “Give it.” “No.” “You aren’t my father.” “Thank fuck for that.”
“You can’t control me.” Minho looked at the legs still resting across his lap. “Stand up, then.” Jisung considered it. “No.”
“Thought so.” Felix passed Jisung his own glass beneath the edge of the table. Minho saw. He allowed it.
You caught his eye. Minho shrugged and took another drink. “Traitor,” Seungmin told him. “I’m off duty.”
“You were never on duty,” Chan said. “Exactly.” Changbin raised his glass. “To Chan finally letting us have fun.” “This is my party.”
“Then act like it.” Chan swore at him, but lifted his drink anyway. Everyone crowded closer. Your friend remained beside your sister near the end of the counter, amused but still slightly removed from the intimacy of the group. You caught her eye and held up your glass.
She lifted hers back. Your sister barely noticed. She was watching Seungmin. He stood behind you with one hand resting against your hip, his thumb moving absently beneath the hem of your top.
You leaned back into him. “To being hot,” Hyunjin said. Jeongin nodded. “Finally, something relevant.” Chan looked around the group. “Can we toast to something normal?”
“No,” everyone replied. The shot burned on the way down. Felix coughed. You squeezed your eyes shut and grabbed the first solid thing you found.
It was Changbin’s arm. “Fuck.” Changbin laughed. “You agreed to it.” “That tasted like paint stripper.”
“You’ve never tasted paint stripper.” “Maybe I have.” Seungmin pulled you backwards against his chest. “And this is why you weren’t doing shots.” You turned in his arms. “I did one.”
“You nearly died.” “I recovered.” “You’re still holding Changbin.You could have held me.” You looked down to find your hand still wrapped around Changbin’s bicep and slowly released him. “Come back when you’ve got biceps, bud.”
Seungmin stared at you for a beat before catching you around the waist and pulling you firmly against his chest. “You seemed perfectly happy with mine earlier.” You placed a hand against his arm as though inspecting it. “They’re all right.” His grip tightened. “All right?” You smiled. “Maybe a little better than that.”
౨ৎ
Someone suggested a drinking game. Nobody later remembered who. You all ended up sitting in a loose circle around the living room with bottles, half-empty glasses and bowls of food scattered between you. Your friend sat beside your sister on the sofa. You were on the floor between Felix and Seungmin, with your back against Seungmin’s legs. His hand rested loosely at the base of your throat, occasionally brushing your hair aside.
Jisung had begun the game beside Minho. By the third round, he was mostly sitting on him. “Never have I ever,” Jeongin began, smiling in a way that immediately made Chan suspicious, “lied to get out of plans with someone in this room.” Nearly everyone drank.
Chan stared at the group. “Are you serious?” “You make too many plans,” Seungmin said. “I ask whether you want dinner.” “That’s still a plan.”
You lifted your glass. Seungmin looked down at you. “When did you lie to me?” You took a long sip. His fingers tightened gently at the back of your neck.
“When?” You smiled into your drink. “Next question.” “No. We’re staying here.” Felix laughed. “She said she was ill once because she wanted to watch a film with us.”
Seungmin stared at you. “You exposed me,” you told Felix. “I forgot it was a secret.” “You chose them over me?” Seungmin asked.
“You were working.” “You still lied.” “You would’ve sulked.” “I am sulking now.”
You twisted around to look at him. “Do you need a kiss?” Seungmin considered the offer. “Yes.” You kissed him quickly.
He kept one hand against your jaw and prevented you from moving away. “That was inadequate.” Everyone groaned. You laughed against his mouth before kissing him again, slower this time.
When you finally pulled away, Changbin threw a crisp at Seungmin’s head. “Some of us are single.” “You don’t have to watch,” Seungmin said. “You’re in the middle of the room.”
“Look somewhere else.” Hyunjin placed one hand against Changbin’s cheek and turned his face away. “There. Problem solved.” Changbin bit his palm. Hyunjin screamed.
The game continued. “Never have I ever had a crush on someone in this room,” Felix said. Silence fell. Then Jeongin drank.
Hyunjin drank. Changbin drank. Jisung lifted his glass, looked around and drank twice. Minho looked at him. “Twice?”
Jisung rested his chin on Minho’s shoulder. “I contain multitudes.” Minho took Jisung’s glass and drank from it. The room erupted. Jisung stared at him, eyes widening. “Was that your answer?”
“It was your drink.” “You have your own.” “I wanted yours.” “That is not an answer.”
Minho smiled into the rim of the glass. You turned towards Felix. He was already looking at you. Both of you burst out laughing.
“Don’t,” Minho warned. You covered your mouth with both hands. Seungmin’s chest shook behind you. Your sister remained completely still.
You could feel her watching. Felix nudged your knee. “You didn’t drink.” “I’m dating someone in the room.” “That doesn’t mean you never had a crush.”
Seungmin’s fingers slid beneath your chin and turned your face towards him. “You had better drink.” You stared at him. “Why?” “Because you had a crush on me.”
“That was never confirmed.” “You asked Chan for my number.” The group laughed. Your sister’s glass stopped halfway to her mouth.
Seungmin’s eyes flicked towards her, then back to you. Your smile softened despite the alcohol. Felix made an emotional noise. Minho pointed at him. “Don’t fucking start.”
Felix’s eyes had already begun shining. “I’m fine.” “You’re about to cry.” “I just think they’re cute.”
Seungmin felt you sniff. “No.” “I’m not doing anything.” “You’re crying.”
“Felix started it.” Felix wiped beneath one eye. “I’m happy.” “That makes it worse,” Seungmin said. You twisted and threw your arms around him.
He caught you automatically. “I love you.” Seungmin sighed, but his arms tightened around your waist. “I love you too.”
౨ৎ
The music became louder after that. So did everyone. Chan lost control of the playlist when you, Felix and Jisung began shouting over every song until he played something you liked. By then, the coffee table had disappeared beneath bottles, crushed cans and bowls of snacks nobody remembered opening. Somebody had spilt something sticky beside the sofa. Changbin had taken his shirt off for reasons nobody understood, and Hyunjin kept threatening to throw it out of the nearest window. You, Felix and Jisung dragged one another into the middle of the room.
At first, you actually danced. Felix knew what he was doing even while drunk. Jisung knew what he was doing until something distracted him, which happened every ten seconds. You possessed confidence far beyond your ability and therefore believed you looked incredible. Changbin encouraged that delusion by cheering whenever you moved. Hyunjin attempted to correct your posture once.
You told him to fuck off. He looked deeply wounded. “I’m trying to save you.” “I don’t need saving.” “You’re dancing like your limbs have separate plans.”
“They’re expressing themselves.” Felix laughed and caught your waist before you could stumble into the coffee table. Jisung pressed against your back, shouting the lyrics directly beside your ear while the three of you moved with very little coordination and enormous enthusiasm. From the sofa, Seungmin watched you. His blue shirt had come unbuttoned slightly at the throat, his hair had fallen across his forehead and his cheeks were warm from the alcohol. One hand rested around his glass while his eyes remained fixed on you.
Your sister sat only a few feet away. She attempted to speak to him twice. He answered politely, but barely looked in her direction. When you caught his gaze, you smiled and crooked one finger towards him.
Seungmin shook his head. You did it again. He lifted his drink as though that explained why he could not move. You pouted.
That worked. Seungmin put the glass down and crossed the room. Felix released your waist with a grin. Jisung remained attached to you until Minho appeared behind him, hooked an arm around his middle and pulled him backwards. Jisung laughed and twisted in his hold. “Jealous?”
Minho murmured something into his ear. Whatever it was made Jisung’s face turn bright red. Felix screamed. You screamed because Felix did.
Seungmin caught your face between both hands. “Why are you shouting?” You pointed vaguely towards Minho and Jisung. “Something happened.” “Nothing happened,” Minho said without looking at you. Jisung buried his face against his shoulder.
You grinned. “Something definitely happened.” Minho gave you a warning look. You immediately turned back to Seungmin and began adjusting his collar as though that had always been your intention. “Coward,” Seungmin murmured.
“You’re supposed to protect me.” “From the consequences of your own behaviour?” “You’re my boyfriend.” “That isn’t what that means.”
His hands slid to your waist as the song changed. You pulled him closer, and although he continued pretending not to dance, his body fell easily into the rhythm of yours. “There,” you said. “You’re dancing.” “I’m standing near you.” “You’re moving.”
“You keep dragging me around.” “You love it.” Seungmin lowered his mouth beside your ear. “I love you.” The softness of it caught beneath your ribs.
You turned and kissed him. He kissed you back without hesitation, one hand spreading across the small of your back while the party surged around you. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted at them to shut the fuck up. You suspected one of them had been Changbin. When you pulled away, Seungmin followed far enough to steal another brief kiss.
“You’re clingy,” you murmured. “You called me over.” “And you came.” “You pouted.”
“That’s all it takes?” “Unfortunately.” You smiled and kissed the edge of his jaw. His eyes closed.
“Again.” “You’re demanding.” You kissed his jaw again, and Seungmin’s grip tightened around your waist. Across the room, your sister emptied the rest of her glass.
You barely noticed. Seungmin’s attention had already wandered from dancing to pressing lazy kisses against whatever part of you happened to be closest—your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. When his lips brushed beneath your ear, you laughed and pushed lightly at his chest. “You’ve completely stopped dancing.” “I never started.”
“You came over.” “You summoned me.” “I moved one finger.” “Very controlling.”
His hand settled lower against your back, holding you close when somebody squeezed past. You reached up and fixed his collar again. “You look messy.” “You made me messy.” “That sounds suggestive.”
“It was meant to.” His smile turned slow and pleased. Before he could say anything worse, Felix collided gently with your side and caught your hand. “I need her.” Seungmin kept one arm around you. “You’ve had her for three songs.”
“The next one’s important.” “They’ve all been important,” you said. Seungmin looked at Felix. “You sound like her.” “That’s why she loves me.”
Felix pulled. Seungmin held on. You found yourself stretched between them. “Don’t make me choose.” Felix smiled. “You’ll choose me.”
Seungmin’s eyebrows lifted. “Choose carefully.” You pretended to consider it before twisting out of Seungmin’s arm, kissing him quickly and letting Felix drag you away. “Coward,” Seungmin called after you. “You still got a kiss!”
“Barely.” You laughed as Felix pulled you back into the crowd. The next hour dissolved into heat, noise and flashes of movement. Hyunjin danced as though someone might be filming him. Changbin attempted to copy him with enough force to make the floor shake.
Nearby, Minho took the glass out of Jisung’s hand and drank from it himself. Jisung watched him. “You said I couldn’t have that.” “You can’t.” “But you can?”
“Yes.” “That’s hot.” Minho looked away, but not before you saw him smile. Someone produced two microphones.
The karaoke began badly and deteriorated almost immediately. You, Felix and Jisung chose a song all three of you knew, which would have helped if any of you had agreed on when to start. Jisung came in too early. You missed half the first line. Felix attempted to hold the performance together and ended up laughing so hard that he could no longer sing. Changbin provided backing vocals without a microphone. Hyunjin acted out the lyrics from the sofa.
Chan kept trying to lower the volume and being shouted at whenever the music became even slightly quieter. By the second song, you had abandoned any pretence of performing well. You and Felix shared one microphone while Jisung used the other for increasingly dramatic ad-libs that had nothing to do with the actual song. Halfway through the chorus, you passed close enough to the sofa for Seungmin to hook his fingers around your wrist. He pulled.
You landed sideways across his lap, and the microphone struck his shoulder. “Shit. Sorry.” Seungmin took it from you before you could hit him again. “Ouch.” “I’m performing.”
“You’re screaming into expensive equipment.” He placed the microphone safely on the table. Felix shouted your name. You tried to stand, but Seungmin held your waist.
“I have responsibilities,” you told him. “You have absolutely no responsibilities.” “Felix needs me.” Felix and Jisung had abandoned the song and were arguing with Chan about whether the lyrics on the screen were wrong.
Seungmin looked towards them. “They seem busy.” “Then I need to help.” “You need to stay here for thirty seconds.” “Why?”
“I missed you.” Your expression softened before you could stop it. Seungmin smiled, knowing he had won. “You’re manipulative.”
You settled more comfortably across his thighs, one arm circling his shoulders. Seungmin rested his face against your chest and closed his eyes while your fingers moved through his hair. Across from you, your sister’s gaze remained fixed on his hand resting against your thigh. Your friend was speaking to her. Your sister nodded without listening.
By one in the morning, the party had split between the living room, the kitchen and the balcony. The music remained loud enough to vibrate through the floor. People drifted between conversations with drinks they had not poured and jackets that did not belong to them. Someone had opened a window, but the room was still hot with too many bodies and the sharp mixture of alcohol, perfume and whatever Changbin had sprayed after insisting he smelled fine. Your friend remained mostly with your sister. She laughed whenever the group became loud enough to include everyone, but she never tried to force herself into the easy physical closeness surrounding the boys.
You checked on her whenever you remembered. Each time, she assured you she was fine. Your sister always said the same. The fourth time you approached, your friend caught your wrist. “You are incredibly drunk.”
You looked down at yourself. “I’m standing.” “Barely.” Your friend laughed. Your sister did not. “She’s been throwing herself around for hours. She always gets like this when she drinks.”
There was something dismissive beneath the words. You recognised it even through the alcohol. Your friend did too. “She looks like she’s having fun,” she replied.
“I’m having an incredible time,” you announced. “I can tell.” Your sister glanced across the room towards Seungmin. “He must be exhausted.” You followed her gaze.
Seungmin was beside Chan, listening to Changbin explain something with far too much hand movement. He caught you looking almost immediately and lifted one eyebrow in silent question. You smiled. He smiled back. “Does he look exhausted?” you asked.
“He’s spent the whole night following you around.” “He likes me.” “I’m aware.” Before the conversation could sharpen, Felix appeared behind you and looped an arm around your shoulders. “There you are.”
“I’ve been here.” “You disappeared.” “I was checking on them.” Felix glanced towards your friend and sister. “Everything good?”
Your friend nodded. “We’re fine.” Your sister smiled at him. “We were talking.” “Great. I’m stealing her.” “You always steal her,” your sister said.
Felix laughed as though she had made a joke. “Everyone does.” He pulled you towards the kitchen. You looked back once. Your friend gave you a small, reassuring smile.
Your sister was already watching Seungmin again. In the kitchen, Jisung was sitting on the counter while Minho stood between his knees, holding a glass out of reach. “That’s mine,” Jisung complained. “It was yours.”
“I’m not finished.” “You said the room was spinning.” “It stopped.” “When?”
“When I closed one eye.” Felix immediately took Jisung’s side. “Give it back.” Minho looked at him. “You’re a terrible influence.” “You’re drinking too,” you pointed out.
“I can handle it.” “So can I.” Minho gave up and handed the drink to you instead. Jisung gasped. “That’s mine.”
“You’re too drunk.” “So are you.” “I’m handling it better.” Felix took the glass from you and drank before either of you could protest.
Minho laughed. It was becoming obvious that he was far drunker than he appeared. His movements were still controlled and his words remained clear, but his eyes had softened and he was smiling much too often. You stepped into the space beside him and wrapped both arms around his waist. Minho looked down. “What’s this?”
“I’m appreciating you.” “You’re crushing my shirt.” You rested your cheek against his chest. “You smell nice.” “None of you are getting another drink.”
“You ruined it,” you complained. “He ruins everything,” Jisung agreed. Minho caught Jisung’s chin and tilted his face upwards. “You can barely keep both eyes open.” “I only need one.”
“For what?” “To look at you.” Minho stared at him. You buried your face against Minho’s shoulder to hide your laughter.
Jisung looked unbearably pleased with himself. Minho’s ears turned pink. “You’re a fucking menace.” “You love me.” Seungmin entered the kitchen before anyone could comment.
He looked at Minho’s arm around you and Jisung hanging over his shoulders Then he looked at Minho. “You’ve collected them.” “I didn’t.” Seungmin approached and slid both hands onto your hips. “You keep disappearing.”
“You were talking.” “I can talk while holding you.” “That sounds inconvenient.” “I’m talented.”
Minho nodded towards you. “Take her before she asks for another shot.” You turned in Seungmin’s arms. “He’s trying to get rid of me.” “You’re attached to his shirt.” “I like him.”
“You like everyone tonight.” “I like everyone every night.” Seungmin’s expression softened. The next drinking game began in the kitchen because nobody could be bothered to move.
It was meant to be truth or drink. Within minutes, it became an excuse to ask invasive questions and shout whenever somebody refused to answer. Changbin joined first, followed by Hyunjin and Jeongin. Chan arrived last, realised what was happening and attempted to leave. You caught his wrist. “No.”
“I’m hosting.” “You’re hiding.” “I need to check the living room.” Jeongin looked towards the doorway. “It’s still there.”
Chan appealed silently to Minho for help. Minho poured him a drink. “Traitor.” “You chose to host.”
Everyone crowded around the counter and floor. You ended up sitting between Minho’s legs with your back against his chest because the chairs had disappeared beneath coats and bags. Seungmin sat in front of you, one hand wrapped loosely around your ankle. Jisung remained tucked against Minho’s side, his head on his shoulder and one leg draped over yours. Changbin pointed at you first. “Truth or drink?” “Truth.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve done because you were jealous?” Seungmin looked interested. You looked at Changbin. “I’m not jealous.” The entire room laughed.
“That wasn’t the question,” Hyunjin said. You raised your glass. “Then I’m drinking.” Seungmin’s hand tightened around your ankle. “Answer.” “You don’t get to interfere.”
Everyone shouted. “Coward,” Changbin said. “That’s the point of the game.” “The point is to expose yourself.”
“That sounds like a different game,” Jeongin said. You chucked at that The questions became worse from there. Felix refused to reveal who had received a flirtatious message he sent to the wrong person.
Changbin demanded to know whether anybody had ever hooked up somewhere they could have been caught. Half the room drank. Chan stared at everyone with a raised eyebrow. “In my home?” “Not necessarily,” Jeongin said.
“That did not reassure me.” Jisung claimed he had never done anything humiliating because he was horny. The entire group drank on his behalf. “Fuck all of you.”
Minho leant close enough to murmur something beside his ear. Jisung’s face turned red again. You twisted around. “What did he say?” “Nothing.”
Minho looked unbearably pleased. Your sister stood at the edge of the kitchen beside your friend. She watched Seungmin’s hand move slowly over your ankle. Then she watched Minho’s arm settle across your middle when you leant back against him. Perhaps she expected Seungmin to object.
Instead, he reached forward, caught your chin and tilted your face towards his. “My turn,” he said. You kissed him. The kiss was brief, but intimate enough to inspire several dramatic complaints.
When you pulled away, Seungmin’s thumb brushed once beneath your lip. Your sister looked away. The game ended when Chan realised the music in the living room was loud enough to make the glasses vibrate. Everyone returned to dancing.
By then, nobody pretended it was organised. You, Felix and Jisung shouted lyrics you barely knew with your arms around one another. Sometimes you danced. Sometimes you merely jumped during the chorus and trusted somebody to catch you. Changbin joined whenever the song was good. Hyunjin joined whenever he considered the song worthy.
Jeongin joined only to make everyone else look worse. At one point, Minho caught your hand as you passed and spun you beneath his arm. You nearly completed the movement gracefully. Then you lost your balance.
Minho caught you against his chest. Jisung caught you from the other side. The three of you laughed, tangled together. Seungmin appeared behind you and closed both hands around your waist. “You’re stealing my girlfriend,” he told Minho.
Minho shrugged. “She came willingly.” “He spun me.” “You asked,” Minho reminded you. Seungmin looked down at you. “You ask everyone for things.”
“And they give them to me.” “That’s because you’re spoilt.” “By you.” “Mostly.”
He kissed your forehead. You leant into him, suddenly overwhelmed by the warmth of the room and how much you loved everyone in it. Across the room, your friend smiled at the sight. Your sister finished another drink.
By the time you needed the bathroom, you were far beyond pleasantly drunk. You were still awake, still talking and technically capable of walking, but the room tilted whenever you turned too quickly. Seungmin noticed you heading towards the hallway and followed. You looked over your shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“With you.” “I can piss alone.” “I’m making sure you reach the bathroom.” “That’s insulting.”
Seungmin caught your waist before you walked into the wall. “Exactly.” You allowed him to guide you down the hallway, although you complained the entire way. At the bathroom door, you planted both hands against his chest. “You can’t come in.” “I wasn’t planning to.”
“You looked like you were.” “I was opening the door.” Seungmin smiled and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be here.” “Why?”
“Because you’ll forget where the living room is.” “It’s one hallway.” “And yet.” You narrowed your eyes and disappeared into the bathroom.
When you came back out, your sister was standing in front of him. One hand rested against the wall beside his shoulder. Seungmin was leaning away. “You could come upstairs with me,” she said.
He blinked at her. “Why?” You stopped in the doorway. Even through the alcohol, laughter rose immediately in your chest. Your sister looked at him as though he were deliberately being stupid. “You know why.”
“I genuinely don’t.” She moved closer, forcing Seungmin’s back against the wall. “We could have sex.” For one long second, Seungmin simply stared at her.
Then his gaze found yours over her shoulder. You covered your mouth. The expression on his face made it impossible not to laugh. His eyes widened slightly, one corner of his mouth twitching as though he could not decide whether to be horrified or offended. Your sister followed his gaze and found you standing there.
Her face hardened. “Oh, please. Don’t act like it’s ridiculous.” That made you laugh harder. “I’m sorry. His face.” “You’re not helping,” Seungmin said.
“You asked why.” “It was a reasonable question.” “She invited you upstairs.” “She could’ve needed something.”
“At one in the morning?” “I didn’t know what she meant.” “You did,” your sister snapped. Seungmin looked back at her. “Apparently not.”
She folded her arms. “You haven’t even considered it.” “No.” “Why?” He stared at her.
Then he gave one short, humourless laugh. “Because I don’t want to.” “You don’t know that.” “I do.” “You’ve never given me a chance.”
“I’m not required to.” Your laughter faded. Your sister stepped closer and reached for his chest. Seungmin caught her wrist before she could touch him.
“Stop.” The word was calm. Firm. He moved her hand away and released it.
Humiliation sharpened your sister’s expression as she turned towards you. “You think this is funny because you assume he’d never choose me.” “I don’t assume it.” “You should stop speaking for him.” “I’m standing right here,” Seungmin said.
She ignored him. “You’ve always done this. You get something and act smug because you know somebody else deserves it more.” The alcohol inside you turned suddenly heavy. You steadied yourself against the bathroom door. “Somebody else?” “You know what I mean.”
“No. Say it properly.” Her eyes travelled over you. Your clothes had shifted from dancing. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was a mess and your balance remained questionable. You had never felt happier.
“Look at you,” she said. “You’re completely wasted. He’s spent all night following you around while you throw yourself over every man in the room.” Seungmin’s expression hardened. You laughed softly. “Is that what this is about?” “I’m saying he could do better.”
“With you?” “Yes.” The certainty would have been impressive if it were not so pathetic. Your smile disappeared.
Your sister noticed and pushed harder. “I’m prettier. I know how to behave. I don’t need eight men constantly touching me and telling me how special I am.” “Nobody is taking care of me.” “You can barely stand.”
“I’m drunk at a party.” “You’ve been climbing into their laps and letting them put their hands all over you. It’s embarrassing.” Seungmin stepped away from the wall and moved to your side. His hand settled securely at the back of your waist.
Your sister watched it. “She hasn’t embarrassed me once,” he said. “She’s been all over Minho. Felix practically had his hands under her clothes earlier.” “So?”
Your sister blinked. Seungmin’s thumb moved slowly against your side. “She loves them,” he said. “They love her. I know exactly where I stand.” “You should have more self-respect.”
His eyebrows rose. “You asked me to cheat on her beside a bathroom.” “You’ve spent the whole night trying to fuck my boyfriend,” you said, “and somehow I’m the slut?” Your sister glared at you. Seungmin continued before she could answer. “Don’t talk to either of us about self-respect.”
“You only say that because she’s standing here.” “I rejected you when she wasn’t.” “You knew she’d find out.” “I knew because I was going to tell her.”
“Why?” “Because she’s my girlfriend.” Your sister shook her head. “You don’t have to keep settling because she got to you first.” Seungmin went still.
There it was. The belief beneath every comparison and every attempt. You had simply reached him first. Had she met him earlier, dressed better, tried harder or pushed for long enough, he would eventually recognise that he had chosen the wrong sister.
Seungmin’s arm tightened around you. “I noticed her,” he said. Your sister scoffed. “You hadn’t met me.” “I’ve met you now.”
The hallway became very quiet. Music still thudded beyond it. Someone laughed in the living room. Your friend called your sister’s name once, distant and uncertain. Seungmin looked directly at her. “And I still choose her.”
Your sister’s face changed. For a moment, she appeared almost sober. Then the anger returned. “She isn’t better than me.”
“This isn’t about who’s better.” “It always is.” “No,” you said quietly. “It’s always been that way to you.” She looked at you.
You could feel Seungmin watching your face. At first, it had been funny. Her unnecessary outfits. Her fake excuses. The way she interpreted Seungmin’s basic manners as secret attraction. Even now, the idea that he might accept remained ridiculous.
But the joke had always required you to ignore the part where your sister could not want something without explaining why you deserved it less. “You can want him,” you said. “I don’t care. It’s humiliating for you, but it doesn’t threaten me.” Her mouth twisted. “What pisses me off is that you can’t admit you want him without telling him I’m ugly, exhausting, childish or not good enough. You don’t flirt with him. You campaign against me.”
“I’ve never called you ugly.” “You keep telling everyone you’re prettier.” “I am.” Seungmin made a disbelieving sound.
You glanced at him. “What?” “Nothing. I’m trying very hard to remain polite.” Your sister folded her arms. “See? You’ve turned him against me.”
“I didn’t have to. You did that by ignoring him every time he said no.” The words landed. Your sister looked at Seungmin. His expression did not soften.
“I thought you were being loyal,” she said. “I was being clear.” “You were trying not to hurt her.” “I was trying not to humiliate you.”
Her cheeks flushed. Seungmin’s voice lowered. “You’ve made that impossible.” Your friend appeared at the far end of the hallway. She looked between the three of you, taking in your sister’s expression and Seungmin’s arm around your waist. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” your sister said immediately. You laughed tiredly. “She asked Seungmin to have sex with her.” Your friend’s eyes widened. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” your sister snapped.
“How should I say it?” “She’s drunk,” your friend said carefully. “So am I.” “I know.”
Your friend approached and touched your sister’s arm. “Come and sit down.” Your sister pulled away. “Everyone’s acting like I’ve done something terrible.” “You propositioned my boyfriend after he repeatedly told you he wasn’t interested.” “You don’t own him.”
“No,” you said. “I don’t.” That stopped her. You rested more heavily against Seungmin’s side but kept your eyes on her. “He’s a person. He said no. That should have mattered even if I didn’t exist.”
Your friend looked at your sister. “She’s right.” Betrayal flashed across your sister’s face. “You’re supposed to be here with me.” “I’m here because she invited me.” The answer was gentle but firm.
Your sister looked between you. Then she laughed bitterly. “Fine. Everyone thinks I’m pathetic.” Nobody answered. That seemed to hurt more than any denial would have.
Your friend held out her hand. “Come on.” After a moment, your sister accepted it. She allowed herself to be led back towards the living room without looking at either of you again. You remained in the hallway.
Seungmin rubbed one hand slowly over your back. You watched them disappear. Then you looked at him. “You really asked why.” His mouth dropped open.
The laughter returned before you could stop it. Seungmin stared at you. “You’re impossible.” “Your face was so confused.” “She was vague.”
“She had you against a wall.” “She said upstairs.” “At one in the morning.” “That could mean anything.”
“Name one other thing.” Seungmin opened his mouth. Nothing came out. You waited.
His expression grew increasingly offended. “Exactly.” He caught your waist in both hands and pulled you closer. “You’re very annoying.” “You love me.”
“I’m reconsidering.” “No, you aren’t.” “No,” he admitted. Your smile softened.
The alcohol made it difficult to hold on to one emotion for long. Amusement blurred into exhaustion, which blurred into the ache your sister’s words had left behind. Seungmin noticed. He always did. “Hey.”
You looked at him. His expression had gentled, eyes warm despite the alcohol. “Are you okay?” “I’m extremely drunk.” “I know.”
“She’s a bitch.” “She is.” “I can’t believe she said I throw myself over everyone.” “You do,” Seungmin said, completely unbothered. “Luckily, everyone seems very happy to catch you.”
“With all of you.” “I know.” His hand settled more firmly at your waist. “I’ve never complained.” “And you don’t care?” Seungmin looked genuinely confused. “Why would I?”
You shrugged. “Because she said—” “I don’t care what she said.” The answer came quickly enough to interrupt you. Seungmin lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“I know you,” he said. “I know them. I know what all of this is.” His free hand gestured towards the living room, where Felix was shouting the chorus to another song while Minho told somebody to turn the music down without making any effort to do it himself. “You’re my girlfriend,” Seungmin continued. “That doesn’t mean you stop belonging with them too.” Something warm tightened in your chest.
“That was disgustingly sweet.” You kissed him. His hand slid to the back of your neck, keeping you close as the kiss deepened. Nothing frantic. Nothing performed for anybody else. Just familiar affection in a dim hallway while the party continued metres away.
When you pulled back, Seungmin followed for one more kiss. Then another. “You’re doing too many,” you murmured. “I’ve lost count.”
“You always say that.” You laughed and rested your forehead against his. “There she is,” he murmured. Footsteps sounded behind you.
Felix appeared first, followed by Jisung and Minho. Felix’s expression changed when he saw your face. “Are you okay?” You nodded. Jisung looked unusually serious. “Your friend said something happened.”
“My sister asked Seungmin to sleep with her.” Jisung stared at Seungmin. Then at you. Then back at Seungmin.
“Why?” You burst out laughing. Seungmin pointed at him. “See? Reasonable question.” “That isn’t what I meant,” Jisung said quickly. “Why would she think you’d say yes?”
“That sounded better after clarification.” Minho stepped closer and touched the side of your face. “Are you actually all right?” You leant into his palm. “Mostly.” “Mostly isn’t yes.”
“She was being a bitch.” “I gathered.” From the living room, Changbin shouted, “If you lot are done fondling each other, we’re doing another round.” Chan shouted back that nobody was doing another fucking shot.
Jeongin appeared in the hallway holding four. The party carried on around you.
“Yeah, I see it,” he answers, fingers flying over the keyboard as he aggressively taps the keys to avoid the incoming enemy attack. One hand stays on the keyboard while the other reaches down, finding your hair again and gathering it into a loose ponytail to guide you further down on his length.
He quickly mutes his microphone before speaking.
“Holy fuck… just like that, angel. Yeah…”
You look up at him through your lashes and find his eyes half-closed, lips parted, head tilted back against the gaming chair.
“Good job, Lix. Damn, you’ve gotten so good these last few months. What’s your secret, mate?” Chan’s voice comes through the headphones and you hum around Felix’s cock.
Felix lets out a low, satisfied sound before unmuting his mic again.
“Ah, you know…” he says casually, glancing down before pushing you a little further onto him, making you choke softly. “…lots of practice and…” He pauses briefly, biting back a grin. “Really getting into it.”
New skz comeback im gonna blow up. I’ve waited 7 months. I posted about 50 stories. I’ve commented about 50 times on the post. I’m making this album my bitch. I’m about to be so annoying EVERYONES GONNA HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT IM ABOUT TO MAKE THIS EVERYBODY’S PROBLEM FUCK. They look so good too like getting flashbanged by hyunjin FIRST? Was indeed evil as well as plotted against me. THEN SIR JEONGIN IN THE FUCKING TANK TOP WOOOOOOOOO IM NO BETTER THAN A MANNNNNNNNN!!!!! Felix…felix….youre an angel never change i cant believe my eyes you’re so gorgeous ENOUGH! Pap-chan i mean Chan ehhh hehehe iwantyousobadgivemeachance… SEUNGMINNNNNNNNN I MISSED YOUUUUU fuhhhh i missed seeing him and he look toooo good lord. Han. There’s something else you could be clappin IM FUCKING JOKING SORRY I COULDNT HOLD BACK I want you though I’m not actually joking come here. Anyways. Changbin no THATS DADA THATS DADA MAN 3000 RIGHT THERE GOLLY I WANT YOUUUU I NEED YOUUUU I CRAVE YOUUUUU. Lee know is doing something to me like damn the whole ass outfit stays on I KNOW YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN RIGHT RIGHT?? Didn’t talk about hyunjin enough we’re back you’re so fucking srumdilliumpsious I’m gonna eat you whole istg YOURE SO LUCKY WE HAVE A PHONE AND A COUPLE COUNTRIES IN BETWEEN US OMFG
Dada (tried getting screenshots of the rest of them and they came out like shit so if I retrieve more I will post them trust mwah)
in which you can't stop pulling the same member's photocard. your boyfriend isn't too pleased.
inspired by me pulling namjoon photocards for literally every bts album (except for 7, i decided to branch out and pull a jimin) , [link to felix photo used in banner] , not proofread
main masterlist ; skz masterlist ; 844
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
"who did you pull?"
seungmin's voice was further away than you expected. normally, whenever you entered his apartment, he would be all over you – practically tripping over your feet while pretending he wasn't obsessed with you.
looking up, you found him tucked in the armchair opposite the couch you were sitting on, throw pillow kept on his lap like it could protect him from your answer.
"when did you get over there?"
he didn't answer. all he did was continue to look at the album in your hands like it was a bomb that he couldn't figure out how to defuse.
shockingly, he was the one that gave you this "bomb" anyway. as soon as the albums had begun production and the boys finished their mandatory "open up the physical album and give the fans a tour of its contents" livestream, seungmin grabbed an extra and brought it straight back to his place, texting you to come over.
and here he was now, cowering in his own living room, terrified of the inevitable.
"what card did you get?"
you rolled your eyes. "at least let me take a minute to explore the album, seungie. i didn't get to open it earlier like you." it was only thirty minutes previous when you were watching that livestream on his large television. his face looked so good when it was magnified to a 190 cm screen. not as good as the real thing right in front of your eyes...
"seungmin." he perked up. "get your butt over here or i won't open it." an empty threat, but it got him moving.
when he sat, you finally opened the packaging. the different aspects of the album were arranged neatly: the lyric sheet, the photobook, the cd, the karma wristband, and more than you had yet to notice before seungmin stole your attention once again.
"which is it?"
the photocard he was talking about, the one that had his heart racing in fear, was smack dab in the middle of the other media, but covered in a protective sleeve.
it was cute how pathetic he got over such a small thing. he was truly almost clutching onto you, begging for your protection from the big bad photocard.
taking pity on him, you grabbed it and slid the card from its sleeve in one smooth motion.
seungmin groaned loudly. so loudly that you flinched.
"again?" he threw his head back to lay on the couch cushion. "why do you always get felix?"
you cooed at him. "awww, minnie. don't cry."
"'m not crying." he wasn't. you just liked to tease. he popped back up from the position he had collapsed into out of despair. brown eyes – his, of course – zeroed in on the piece of cardstock in your hand and narrowed. "he looks stupid anyway."
"seungmin!"
he shrugged. "don't know why they picked that photo of him. you wouldn't want to carry that around. here," he took it out of your hands, "i'll get you a better one."
his attempt at acting nonchalant failed dramatically as he quickly padded away with your photocard clutched in his hand so tightly it started to bend. any stay's heart would crumble at the sight.
your own attempt to keep cool faltered, lips pursing into a pout at his adorableness.
seungmin came back into the room at the same speed he left it: far too fast. "let's use our inside feet, seungmin," you tried to gentle parent him. it never worked.
he skidded to a halt by the edge of the couch, socked feet causing him to glide a bit on the hardwood floor. his arm was twisted behind his back, clearly hiding something.
a flash of blue as he pulled his hand out. in his palm, held far more delicately than felix's, was seungmin's photocard. both in that it was a picture of him and that it belonged to seungmin. you watched him pull this exact one earlier on the live, bragging to the other members that he got himself.
wearing that blue turtleneck you never got to see in person (you were still fuming about that), knuckles wrapped in white cloth as if he just fought someone in a fistfight (hopefully he won), the hairstyle that pushed his hair off of his forehead in the way that always made you swoon, silver-ring adorned fingers held against his plush lips, and that eyebrow slit that you kissed every night until it faded away. that photoshoot had you collapsing to your knees in awe every time you saw it.
he handed it to you. "here. you're not stuck with felix anymore. you're welcome."
his preemptive response to the thank you that you had not yet given almost made you want to bite your tongue in teasing. but then you looked back at the photocard that he still held. to do anything other than bite your lip, look up at him through your lashes and say "thank you minnie" would be sacrilegious.
"why is my photocard stuffed in the trashcan?" a shocked voice rang through the apartment.
Hwang Hyunjin x Fem!Reader.
(Platonic) Kim Seungmin x Fem!Reader.
(Platonic) Bang Chan x Fem!Reader.
9th Member.
Divider is made by @astrayapple
Word count: 1,322.
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Summary: Hyunjin is a little jealous that you're spending time with Seungmin and not him.
Hyunjin loved having your attention on him. He adored everything about you. He loved hearing your voice, listening to your laughs and giggles. He smiled, seeing you get lost in a conversation. He enjoyed getting to hold you in his arms and keep you close to him. Now, Hyunjin could share your attention. Of course, he could. He wasn’t a child; he knew he sometimes wouldn’t be the main focus for you every day. You had other things to focus on. Like vocals, dancing, ambassadorships, the group, your family, his family, Kkami and apparently right now, Kim Seungmin.
Seungmin had come to the dorm that you shared with Hyunjin and Changbin to spend time with you. You both had the day off and had spent the time doing whatever you wanted. You both baked together before moving to the couch to eat and go live.
Everything had been fine, then Hyunjin came home, and the drama started.
He had been in the car with Chan when he saw that you were live and immediately rushed to watch you. He wanted to support you.
“She’s with the dog? Why is she doing a live with Seungmin? She BAKEd him COOKIES! I want cookies! Why is she with him and not me!” He had whined dramatically.
Chan had glanced at the dramatic man before focusing on the road. “Jinnie, you were working today. He wasn’t, and neither was she.”
That had caused Hyunjin to huff and pout.
Which brings us here. To Hyunjin, being home, pacing the living room, a cookie in one hand, the other hand on his hip.
“It’s just so unfair.” The taller male stated. Acting like it was the most devastating thing in the world. “Why hang out with Seungmin? I saw you two on that live….singing back and forth, taking turns singing the next word, you could give Binnie and Hannie a run for their money!”
You couldn’t help but smile up at your boyfriend.
But Seungmin smirked. “We also danced on the balcony.” He spoke; his voice was full of smugness.
“No!” Hyunjin let out a devastated squeak as he bit his fist.
Seungmin leaned forward as he watched Hyunjin. “Yes. And she told me my waltzing had gotten better!” Oh, he was having so much fun.
Chan raised an eyebrow as Hyunjin fell to his knees, clutching a hand over his heart. “What’s the big deal? She dances with all of us for work anyway. She and Minho literally do ballroom as part of one of their unit songs.”
Hyunjin let out an outraged gasp. “How dare you!” He cried out as his head snapped to look at Chan. “That’s work! My Muse and I…we dance together, for love, for passion, for pleasure! It’s our thing! And HE-” He pointed an accusatory finger at Seungmin, who looked very pleased with himself. “Came in and stole it from me! He took my Love. How do I go on?”
Hyunjin sucked in a heavy breath as he flopped on his back. “Hyung! It’s too late for me. I see the light. Tell Yongbok and Minho to look after my pretty, beautiful, pure Love for me. Keep the DOG away from my precious flower!”
A part of you wondered if you should tell Hyunjin that you were still Live. Stay could see and hear everything he was doing.
You sighed and stood up. “Jinnie.” You spoke softly; your voice seemed to snap the man out of his drama.
He smiled up at you with the sweetest, most adorably dopey smile you had ever seen. “Yes, my angel?” He asked you as he rolled onto his stomach, one hand under his chin as he looked at you, batting his eyelashes.
Chan chuckled at the smitten look in Hyunjin’s eyes, whereas Seungmin gagged.
You knelt in front of him and kissed his cheek before taking the cookie from him and waving it in front of him. Hyunjin stretched out his neck to try to bite into it.
“Jinnie, my heart. No one can replace you. You're my partner in life, in love and in dance.” You told him, your voice dripping in sweetness, which made Hyunjin always feel so warm.
Hyunjin grinned at you. “Oh, my pretty petal. You always know how to cheer me up!” He spoke gleefully as he began to sit up properly.
However, before anything else could happen, Chan spoke up. He had noticed that the live was still on. It was clear on your phone. He had that look on his face, the one that told the world that he was clearly up to something. He kept looking at the live before looking back at you and Hyunjin.
“Wow, you just accepted defeat just like that? All she has to do is speak sweetly and bat her eyelashes? Seungmin is sitting on your settee, eating cookies that could have been yours.” Chan was stirring the pot and looking good whilst doing it.
Hyunjin’s eyes went wide. Chan was right. Seungmin was sitting there with his adorably dumb, smug smile on his cute, dumb face.
Hyunjin got up and made his way to Seungmin. “You!” He pounced, jumping on Seungmin and began messing up his hair.
Seungmin let out a surprised yell, his cookie dropped onto the plate as he tried to push Hyunjin off of him, though the camera picked up his smile. “Ahhh! Channie-Hyung! Save me! Make him stop!”
Chan licked his bottom lip, feeling rather proud of himself. “Sorry, Minnie. I don’t know what you want me to do.” He spoke with fake innocence. He shrugged with a durpy smile on his face.
You let out a small breath and shook your head lightly. “Jinnie, leave him alone. Stay can see you.”
Well, that made Hyunjin pause. He turned to look at you, eye wide. “What?”
“Stay can see you. You came home whilst I was still live. They heard and saw everything, my Prince.” You spoke quietly, almost shyly.
Hyunjin’s jaw dropped as he looked at you. “They saw and heard all of that?” He asked, making sure he had heard you right.
You nodded your head slowly as you confirmed his word.
Chan took a step forward. “What’s even funnier is that your phone is still on, the live is still playing on your phone.”
Both Chan and Seungmin let out barking laughs as Hyunjin made his way to you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his face into your chest as he knelt up, trying to hide in embarrassment.
You stroked his hair and chuckled lightly. “Oh my Jinnie.” You giggled out as you ran your fingers through his hair, hoping the embarrassment would go away.
WifeDormLover: Look at Hyunjin proving that he's a drama queen and a simp for Love.
Chanswolflaptop: Not Chan stirring the pot! He lives for the drama!
ArtisLife: Excuse me! Kim Seungmin, we all see that smile. We know you’re enjoying the manhandling.
HyunOvelovechild: How is that Hyunjin is the tallest member and Love is the shortest, but seeing Hyunjin kneeling on the settee, hiding into Love, he looks so tiny?
SecretSecretQuokka: Hyunjin is hilarious. He's out here acting like he's dying because Love is giving someone else attention.
SeungminIntheCAR: I would 100% die of embarrassment too. So I feel you on every level here, Hyunjin.
SeungLovTruther: I really enjoy getting to see Love and Seungmin together. They are such an underrated pairing. Seungmin is so soft and playful with Love; he always makes her smile, and he’s lowkey protective of her. And Love! She is older than Seungmin, but she lets him baby her. She lets him act like the older one, and I think that’s so sweet!! Also, them baking together was just beautiful!
Hanstea: Chan and Seungmin are having waaaaay too much fun.
t.leeknowsaurus: Ha Ha Ha! Pabo! Saving this for reasons. Love, you look beautiful today, Baby girl! Save me some cookies. On my way over.
